


Dean (and Cas') Top 13 Zepp Traxx

by pantheon_of_discord



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 'cause fuck you buckleming: I reject your reality and substitute my own, Angst, Background Sam/Eileen, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Fluff, Getting Together, Human Castiel, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Series, Road Trips, Sam gets a dog!, Sex, Whump, also there's bedsharing, gratuitous Led Zeppelin references, this fic is completely mixtape-induced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-10-31 23:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 82,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10909440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantheon_of_discord/pseuds/pantheon_of_discord
Summary: Dean eases Baby down the frontage road, trying not to look in the rearview mirror as his home gets smaller and smaller behind him.He’s done this a hundred times. He’s driven down this road in the soft morning light, heading out to some little town in some distant corner of the country. This is a job like any other.“It’s not like we’re never coming back,” Cas says from the passenger seat.*Dean and Cas and the open road, to the tune of Led Zeppelin.A post-series story in thirteen parts.





	1. Track 1: Ramble On

**Author's Note:**

> Well hey there friends, thanks for stopping by. 
> 
> Updates should be semi-regular. 
> 
> I'm pantheonofdiscord on tumblr, if ya wanna come say hi. 
> 
> Shh. . . spotify playlist which is kind of like a sneak-peek of chapter titles.  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG

Leaves are falling all around, It's time I was on my way.  
Thanks to you, I'm much obliged for such a pleasant stay.  
But now it's time for me to go. The autumn moon lights my way.  
For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way.

 

 

It’s early morning when they head out from the bunker for the first time. Cas grumbled about the hour, but Dean wanted an early start. Like ripping off a bandaid.

It’s Autumn, just cool enough that a haze of mist diffuses the sun as it crosses the horizon. Dean eases Baby down the frontage road, trying not to look in the rearview mirror as his home gets smaller and smaller behind him.

He’s done this a hundred times. He’s driven down this road in the soft morning light, heading out to some little town in some distant corner of the country. This is a job like any other.

“It’s not like we’re never coming back,” Cas says from the passenger seat.

Dean looks sideways. Cas has turned in his seat, back resting half against the door and a thoughtful frown bunching his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I know.”

Cas is still looking at him carefully, so Dean makes an effort to school his features. “You should try to get another couple hours of shut-eye. It’s a long way to Fort Lauderdale.”

Cas eyes him another moment, then nods, leaning his head back against the window and closing his eyes. “Wake me when we stop for coffee.”

Dean grunts in response, before popping a cassette into the deck and turning the volume down to a low hum. Just enough to fill the silence.

He grips the wheel tighter.

 

 

Cas sleeps until Clay Center, Dean having run through Zeppelin II twice. They pull into a Gas ‘n Sip to grab snacks and to-go cups of muddy coffee, Cas completely downing his before even reaching the till and going back to grab a second for the road. Dean goes slower; he’s been trying to cut back a bit with his vices and he’s already wired and jumpy this morning. Still, he snags an extra sip out of Cas’ cup after he finishes his own.

“If you wanted more, you should’ve bought a second one for yourself as well,” Cas grouses, snatching his cup back and clutching it protectively to his chest.

“I didn’t _want_ a whole other cup. I wanted _yours_.”

Cas squints. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Makes perfect sense, Cas. Driver’s prerogative,” Dean digs into the plastic bag between them on the front bench, before throwing a package at Cas’ head. “Now shut up and eat your nasty pork rinds.”

Cas glares again, but primly ignores the slight against his chosen snack food while Dean digs out his box of Twinkies.

“We’ll stop for lunch somewhere in a couple hours, then I figure we drive ‘til we hit Alabama, stop there for the night. Should make it down to Fort Lauderdale by late tomorrow.”

Cas nods, swallowing a mouthful of pork rinds, and Dean tries very hard not to notice him slowly and contemplatively licking the grease off his fingers. “And you said chupacabra?”

“Coroner’s report said exsanguination and three puncture marks in a triangle, and that’s usually a dead giveaway, but I dunno man, it’s the Everglades. Chupacabras tend to stay more in Texas, if they decide to cross the border at all. It’s probably going to be a gator running rampant and we’ll have driven two days for nothing.”

“Sam said there’ve been reports of chupacabra as far north as Maine over the years,” Cas replies. “Also, I don’t think gators drain their prey of blood and only leave behind a few puncture wounds,” he muses.

Dean snorts. “Maine, right. If there’s anything to those stories, I’ll bet you dollars to donuts folks were seeing wendigos, or maybe skinwalkers.”

“Well, this hunter friend of Mary’s seemed sure enough.”

“Oh yeah, let’s trust some random hunter. Sure.” Dean rolls his eyes.

“He’s not random, your mother says they met last year. She spoke very highly of him.”

“Yeah, ‘cause Mom’s proven to be a great judge of character,” Dean spits.

There’s a pause, and he sees Cas throw him a wary eye. Dean sighs, dragging one hand down his face from forehead to chin. “Sorry,” he says. “Guess I’m still holding onto that.”

Cas nods and gives him a small half-smile. “It’s alright. You’re allowed to.”

It’s amazing, Dean thinks, how just hearing that brief affirmation is enough to ease the tension in his shoulders. He lets out another shuddering breath and returns Cas’ smile with a small one of his own.

“I know. Thanks, man.”

It’s new, this knowledge that he doesn’t have to be the peacemaker, doesn’t have to push down his own crap to make room for everyone else’s. Mom is her own person. Sam is his own person, and somehow, slowly, Dean is learning to let go.

 

 

 

They push on until Jasper, Alabama, then Dean calls it quits. As much as he loves driving, it’s getting hard to ignore the fact that he’s staring down the barrel of forty, and can’t sit behind the wheel for 14 hours without feeling the consequences for a full week. Cas had offered to drive a few times but – no. They’ll get there, he’s sure, but Dean can only take so much emotional upheaval in a day.

The motel is their usual fare; a bored clerk in the office, shabby and incredibly tacky décor, and discount detergent doing absolutely nothing to mask the stale reek of cigarettes.

Cas drops his duffel at the foot of the bed closest to the door, then flops down and instantly grabs the tv remote. Dean rolls his eyes, before setting his own bag down by the other bed and pulling out his phone.

Sam picks up on the third ring. “Hey.”

“Yeah, hey,” Dean replies. This feels so much weirder than it should. “How was _your_ day?” he asks, managing – he hopes – to keep the resentment out of his voice.

Sam huffs a little. “It was good, actually. I’m working on a new system for organizing all our hard copy files, and I actually found a whole new storage room in here, down by the gun range. Tons of boxes of old records and documents, should keep me busy for a while.”

“Well, that sounds absolutely thrilling, Sam. Keep an eye out, because your World’s Most Boring Person award should be coming in the mail any day now.”

If eye rolls were audible, Dean’s sure he would have them in stereo – one from Sam and one from Cas, who barely glances over from his spot lounged out on the bed before turning back to the tv.

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam says in his ear. “But you’re the one who’s going to be calling me, begging for my help when you’re stuck on a job and spinning your wheels.”

Dean swallows. “You know what’d help that,” he starts. “Is if you came with, instead of staying behind in the nerd castle playing search engine.”

Dean can hear Sam shuffling papers on his end of the phone, and Cas flicks his eyes over to Dean again, a little pitying.

“Dean, we’ve been over this. I. . . can’t do that. Not anymore, not how we used to. It’s not me.” He sounds honestly sorry, and Dean feels like a bit of an ass.

“Yeah, Sammy, I know. Just gonna take some getting used to, I guess,” he says, digging his toe down into the hideous shag carpet.

“Yeah, for both of us. For all of us, actually,” Sam amends. “How’re you two doing?”

Dean shrugs. “We’re good. Made it to Alabama today, should hit Fort Lauderdale by tomorrow night.”

“But you’re doing alright? You’re not driving each other totally nuts already?”

Dean glances at Cas, who’s now in the process of haphazardly kicking his boots off the side of his bed. “Not yet. Might get that way if he keeps asking to drive Baby.”

Cas frowns up at him. “I was only offering when you looked tired enough to drive us off the road. I’m being helpful,” he adds, loud enough for Sam to hear through the receiver.

“Oh yeah, you two’ll be fine,” Sam snorts.

Dean grumbles. “Yeah whatever, man. Least he doesn’t snore.”

“And on that note, I’m going to turn in,” Sam says. “I’m gonna work on getting all the phones up and running tomorrow. Gimme a week or so and we’ll have a real command centre, just like Bobby used to.”

There’s a lump forming in Dean’s throat, but he ignores it. “Sounds good. I’ll check in tomorrow when we get to town.”

“’Kay,” Sam says idly, already distracted. “Night.”

“Night, Sammy.”

Dean hangs up, but stays staring at his dark phone screen for a long time.

“Dean?” Cas asks cautiously, and Dean glances up to meet his eyes. “Are you alright?”

Dean nods. He tosses his phone on his bed and then stoops to grab some clean boxers from his duffel. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just gonna take a shower.”

Cas looks like he wants to say something else, but Dean turns on his heel and closes the bathroom door before he gets a chance.

Dean stays in the shower longer than is strictly necessary, letting the water run a little too hot as it pounds into the sore muscles of his back. When he finally emerges, Cas has turned the tv off and is lying under the covers. Dean’s pretty sure he’s still awake, but he thankfully doesn’t say anything as Dean turns out the light and gets into bed himself.

 

 

The road down to the Everglades is long, but Dean is thankful for it. He’s been itching to move, itching to _work_ , and the pavement under Baby’s wheels and the scenery pushing past the windows is as soothing as it’s ever been.

After the whole Nephilim mess, Dean, Sam, Cas, and Mary had decided to take a temporary break from hunting that somehow turned into a full-on sabbatical. They’d spent the last few months holed up in the bunker and for a while, it had been nice. For once, everyone was whole and healthy and alive; he and Sam were in a good place; Mary was. . . well, that’s a work in progress, he supposes, but they’d had time together to start sorting out what being a family actually meant for them.

And Cas. . . Cas was doing okay, considering. Stopping Satan Jr had cost him his grace again, but this time he had a family to come home to, and Dean wasn’t going to turn him away again. Whatever had gone down, however. . . complicated things could be between the two of them, that was one thing Dean was sure of. He had Cas’ back, and Cas had his.

“How far out are we?” Cas voice breaks the stretch of silence and Dean starts. He’d thought Cas had been asleep.

“Still about six hours. You wanna stop for food?”

Cas nods, ruefully eyeing the empty chip bags between them on the seat.

“There’s an all-day breakfast place in Jennings; I’m thinking pancakes,” Dean says, just as a chirp sounds from Cas’ phone.

“That Sam?”

Cas checks the text and then shakes his head. “Mary. She’s just checking in, says she’s wrapped up that poltergeist in Mesa.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “She’s texting you, not me. Figures.”

Cas pauses a little. “It’s. . . easier for her, I think. She and I have less. . . baggage.”

Dean snorts. “Understatement. So what, she heading home now?”

“No,” Cas examines his phone again. “Looks like she’s caught another case up near Denver, she’s headed there.”

“Shoulda known she’d be out the door and back out there soon as she could,” Dean says sourly.

“You’re back out here too, Dean.”

“That’s different.”

A fond smile softens Cas’ face. “It is, and it isn’t,” he says.

Dean doesn’t have the mental fortitude to try and dissect that right now, so he turns the subject back to the wonders and merits of breakfast food as they cross the Georgia/Florida border.

 

 

“Federal agents? What do the feds want with the Jeffords case?”

Dean sighs inwardly; it’s been a long day of driving and between the swampy Florida air and now a complete yokel of a sheriff, he’s ready to call this a wash.

“We just go where the government sends us, Sheriff Cobbler,” Cas dutifully parrots, and despite his fatigue, Dean has to suppress a smile. “If you could get us the coroner’s report, and anything else you have so far.”

Cobbler squints back and forth between the two of them, a frown pulling his wrinkled forehead. “You fellas thinkin’ it’s somethin serial? Maybe one of them cults like they had up in Boca? Ya hear a lot of strange stuff in these parts.”

“We’re. . . exploring all possibilities, Sheriff,” Dean chimes in. “We don’t want to alarm anybody, we’re just trying to get the lay of the land.”

Cobbler nods sagely. “Mmm, gotcha,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “Keepin’ it under wraps for now, eh?”

Cas leans in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. He taps his own nose.

“Exactly. We’re keeping things on the _down-low_.”

Dean has to turn his head away, unable to fight the grin that spreads across his face.

Cobbler leans back, apparently satisfied. He turns to his desk to fish out a file and hands it over.

“Well, I don’t know what you boys are lookin’ for exactly, but that’s all we got so far. Oscar Jeffords, aged 44, divorced, no kids. Resident of Weston, that’s just a coupla miles outta town. Best guess is an O-D.”

Dean looks up from the files in surprise. “An overdose, seriously? Why d’you say that?”

Cobbler squints between them again. “Well it’s them puncture marks, ain’t it? Too fine to be anything but needles. We don’t like to talk about it, but,” he lowers his voice, “We’ve got a bit of a drug problem ‘round here.”

Dean meets Cas’ eyes briefly. “Right,” he says. “And toxicology confirms this?”

“Well no, ain’t got the report in yet. Should have it by lunch tomorrow.”

“And how exactly do you account for all of Mr. Jeffords’ blood being missing?” Cas asks, taking the file from Dean.

Cobbler shakes his head. “Drugs, boys. They’ll do some nasty things to the body.” He tsks a few times, before looking up expectantly.

Dean looks up at Cas again, and then after a moment they both nod back at the sheriff.

“Well, you’re right about that, Sheriff,” Dean says wisely. “We’ll hang onto the files, if you don’t mind.”

Cas hands over his card. “If you could call us when that toxicology report gets in, or if there’s anything else pertinent to the case, we’d appreciate it.”

Cobbler nods them off. “Yessir, Agents. ‘Preciate you boys comin’ in.”

They manage to make it to the car before Dean lets out an annoyed groan. “Drugs, he says. Two hundred pound guy in his 40s turns into a mummy overnight and it’s ‘drugs.’ Ladies and gentlemen, the Fort Lauderdale Sheriff’s Department.” He rests his arms on the Impala’s roof and drops his head down with a thunk.

Cas rounds to the passenger side, leaning his own arms across the metal top. “I don’t think he’s going to be much help to us,” he agrees.

“Ya think?” Dean gripes, without heat, face still pressed into the soothing cool of Baby’s roof.

“You’re tired,” Cas says bluntly. “We drove a long way today.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he angles his head back up and sighs. “We should grab some food and head to the motel. What’re you in the mood for?”

Cas thinks for a moment. “French fries. And also, carrots, maybe?” he frowns. “I’m not quite sure. I’m still trying to work out how cravings work.”

Dean shakes his head as he opens the car door and slides in behind the wheel. “Seriously dude, carrots? That’s Sam talking, not your fledgling human taste buds. We’ll get you some fries.”

 

 

The motel only has one small, spindly table to work on, and they’re sitting close enough together that Cas’ knee keeps bumping into Dean’s in a way that is unreasonably distracting. He’s also rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows, and Dean is trying not to stare at Cas’ bare wrists when they’re supposed to be getting work done. Forcing himself to get his head back on straight, Dean digs a folder out from under greasy bags of take-out burgers and crosses to crash down on his bed.

“I don’t know about you man, but I’ve got nothing useful here. No other bodies matching Jeffords’ found in the area. Got a few pet and livestock deaths, but they’re being attributed to natural predators. Nothing that specifically points to something monstery. You?”

Cas’ eyes are glued to the laptop screen as he blindly reaches for the last remaining fries in his paper bag. “I think we should start by heading out to Weston tomorrow to talk to Oscar’s friend, this Tom Jacek. His statement says he was the last one to see Oscar before his body was found. At the very least, he should be able to confirm that it wasn’t an overdose that killed his best friend.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean nods, stifling a yawn behind his hand. “Alright, well, I’m wiped, man. We should hit the hay – we’re probably in for a long day tomorrow.” Dean drops his files onto the floor beside his bed and starts digging through his bag for a t-shirt and sweatpants, changing quickly.

Cas doesn’t look up from the screen. “I’ve also been looking into the history of the area. I can’t find any similar attacks in the last thirty years. Although,” he pauses, furrowing his brow, “From what we’ve seen of the sheriff’s department, it’s not hard to believe they could’ve missed something.”

Dean shrugs, switching off his bedside lamp and sliding under the covers. “Yeah, could be. Listen, we’ll deal with Sheriff Spacey and his elite squad of deputies in the morning. Right now though, you’re going to turn that laptop off and go to bed. You won’t be doing anybody any good dead on your feet tomorrow.”

At this, Cas finally looks over at him. The laptop light is throwing his face into shadow, and Dean can’t read the look in his eyes.

“Right,” Cas says softly. He closes the laptop lid and stands up from the table, rifling through his own bag for a t-shirt. Dean turns over while Cas changes, to give Cas some privacy but more importantly to safeguard what remains of his own sanity. To distract himself a little, he grabs his phone. No messages from Sam, and nothing from Mary either. He’s not surprised; he wasn’t specifically expecting to hear from her, but somehow it still bothers him. He sighs and returns his phone to the bedside table, fumbling for his charger.

Cas finally sinks down into his bed, and Dean hears him heave a deep sigh. “Goodnight, Dean,” he says, voice slightly muffled by his pillow.

“Night, Cas,” Dean murmurs back, as the exhaustion of the long day wins out and he falls asleep almost instantly.

 

 

Predictably, Tom Jacek is quick to confirm Dean and Cas’ suspicion that Sheriff Cobbler is a moron.

“That man’s a moron,” Jacek says, scowling at his garden shears and treating the hedges in his front yard with what Dean deems excessive force. “I knew Oscar for over fifteen years, and he never did drugs a day in his life.”

“So, what do you think happened to him?” Dean asks, taking half a step back as Jacek continues his violent attack on the hedges.

“Got me,” Jacek replies. “We went for happy hour Thursday after work, everything seemed normal. When he didn’t show up for work Friday morning I figured maybe he was just sick or something. I went ‘round Saturday to check on him, but he wasn’t at home. I was there when I got the call from the Sheriff’s Department asking me to,” he pauses his trimming a moment and visibly swallows. “To identify the body.”

Cas nods sympathetically. “You were his emergency contact?”

Jacek looks up briefly before going back to his work. “Yeah, he an’ his wife split about two years ago and she packed up and moved outta state. He didn’t really have anybody else around here, no family.”

“Right,” says Dean. “Now, the report says his body was found out on County Road 27, no vehicle nearby. Any idea why he’d be out that way?”

Jacek nods. “Since the divorce, Oscar’d started taking walks. Not really a fitness thing, I don’t think, just helped to clear his head I guess. Pretty sure he went out that way sometimes. Said he liked getting away from the city.”

Dean nods. “Well, thank you, Mr. Jacek.” He pulls out his card and passes it across the mangled shrubs. “If you think of anything else, please give us a call.”

Jacek slips the card in his pocket. “Yeah, don’t mention it,” he says. Dean’s already started heading back to the car when he adds “Please, just find whatever bastard did this.”

“We will,” Cas gives him a firm nod, and then turns around to the car as well.

“So, scene of the crime next?” Cas asks as they pull away from Jacek’s house.

“Yeah; body was found out in the country a bit, so no matter what kind of nasty it was it probably laired up somewhere nearby. Let’s go have a look-see.”

It takes them a while to find the crime scene, thanks to Sheriff Cobbler’s unsurprisingly vague police report. Eventually they come across a few errant streamers of police tape strung between some bushes by the swampy roadside. It’s noon by now, and with the sun beating down on them stepping out of the car to search the area is like wading through soup.

Finding no clues beyond what’s already in the police report, Dean frowns out at the tall grasses. “I don’t know man, there’s nothing out here, it’s just grass and fields. Chupacabras need some kind of den or something. And if it’s not a chupacabra, I don’t know what else it could be.”

“Vampire?” Cas asks. “I know the three puncture marks don’t line up, but the exsanguination fits.”

Dean considers for a moment. “Maybe, but if that’s the case I would’ve thought there’d be more vics, and we’ve just had the one. Plus, this is a pretty weird spot for a body dump. I can’t imagine a vamp flying solo would just turf his leftovers by the side of the highway.”

“Okay, so we’re back at chupacabra then.”

“I guess. But from what I remember they don’t ever hunt too far from their dens. So it’s gotta be around here somewhere.” He gazes out again at the grassy fields around them. “There’s gotta be fifteen square miles of swamp out here; it’ll take forever to search ourselves. The only chupacabras I’ve hunted were in Mexico and South Texas, and we found them laired up in caves in the desert. I got no clue where to start looking here.”

He turns back around to Cas in time to see him quirk the corner of his mouth a little. “Why don’t we call Sam and see if he can find anything in the Men of Letters files?”

Dean squints at him. “Oohh, you’ve been looking forward to saying that, haven’t you?”

Cas shrugs, trying to hide the half-smile that always makes Dean’s stomach swoop a little. “Not at all. I just think maybe Sam is a little bored and we should humour him by asking for his help.”

“Ooh, nice save,” Dean says, but he grudgingly pulls out his phone and dials.

“Yeah?” Sam sounds frazzled, and his voice is a little muffled, like he’s got his phone squished between his cheek and shoulder.

“Not interrupting anything, are we?” Dean hits the button for speakerphone.

“No it’s fine, fine. What’s up?” he asks.

Cas leans over the phone. “Hello, Sam. Where would a chupacabra build a den in the middle of the Everglades?”

“Hey Cas. Um, I don’t know, they usually stay South of the border and hole up in rocky terrain.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. But all we got here is grassland and swamp,” Dean looks up and makes a face. “Really _stinky_ swamp.”

Sam snorts. “Sounds lovely. Alright, well gimme a bit and I’ll get back to you. I’ve got a whole section on chupacabra I’ve assembled in one of the storage rooms, there’s some stuff going all the way back to the Mayans, they apparently –”

“Yeah, that’s great Sammy. Call when you’ve got something,” Dean hangs up the phone, rolling his eyes. “Geek.”

“Dean,” Cas says reproachfully.

“What? He was starting to talk about Mayans. _Mayans_ , Cas.”

Cas purses his lips, but doesn’t comment further.

“Alright, until we know what we’re looking for, there’s nothing else we can really do out here,” Dean heads back up to the car. “What do you say we drive back into town, grab some grub while we wait for Sam to call back?”

Cas climbs into the passenger seat. “Alright. Somewhere with fries.”

Dean rolls his eyes again, pulling out onto the highway. “Gee, fries? I dunno, Cas. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

 

There’s a greasy spoon close to their motel; a waitress waves them into a booth in the front window and they sit, Dean pulling out his phone. No messages; nothing yet from Sam, and still nothing from Mary. He puts the phone away decisively and instead focuses on Cas, who had picked up the menu the moment they sat down and is now studiously looking it over. He’s got a very concentrated frown on his face, and Dean is so busy NOT noticing how cute it is he fails to notice their waitress approaching until she’s at the end of their table. He jumps a little and looks up to find her round face smiling indulgently at him, and knowing he’s been caught out, he feels his face turning pink.

“Afternoon there, sweetie. What can I get for ya?” she asks.

Dean swallows around his suddenly dry throat. “Coffee, black, and a cheeseburger and fries.”

“You bet. And what about you, honey?” She turns to Cas, who is still examining his menu and doesn’t seem to hear her.

Dean nudges him with his foot. “Cas. Look alive.”

Cas turns startled eyes to Dean, then turns them up to their waitress, waiting patiently with her pen poised on her pad.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll have coffee, black, and a cheeseburger and fries, please.”

The waitress’ smile broadens to a toothy grin, and Dean’s already warm cheeks now flare hot. She briefly slides her eyes back to Dean before nodding and scribbling on her pad. “Comin’ right up.”

As she bustles back to the kitchen, Cas frowns at Dean across the table. “Dean, are you feeling alright?”

“Huh?”

“Your face is red.”

“’M fine,” he mumbles, fiddling with the sugar packets.

“Is this about Sam?”

Dean frowns, wrong-footed. “Sam? What d’you mean?”

Cas seems to pick his words carefully. “You were a little abrupt with him on the phone earlier. More so than usual, I mean,” he adds.

Dean shakes his head as the waitress reappears with two mugs and a carafe. He waits until she’s finished pouring and moved on before he responds. “Me and Sam are fine, Cas. Just ‘cause I didn’t want to talk South American mythology will standing around in a swamp –”

“I know it’s not that Dean,” Cas cuts in. “Or at least, it’s not all that,” he allows. “You’re still upset he’s decided to stay behind.”

Dean crosses his arms and leans back against the side of the booth. “Look, Sam’s a big boy, he can do what he wants. If he wants to be the new Bobby, I’m cool with it. Really.”

Cas cocks an eyebrow. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Dean cuts him off. “Look, can we just forget this for now? Focus on the case?”

Cas reluctantly closes his mouth and nods, pulling out the case files and spreading them out across the table.

They stay mostly silent from there, only uttering brief ‘thank you’s when their burgers arrive. Dean’s contemplating the racks of pie on the counter when Cas’ phone starts to ring.

“It’s Sheriff Cobbler,” he says, wiping his salty fingers off on a napkin.

Dean snorts. “Probably got the tox report in.”

He leans across the table to listen in as Cas picks up the phone. “Agent Hodgson.”

The sheriff’s tinny voice plays out across the line. “Oh hey there, Agent. Wanted to let you fellas know that we got that toxicology report back. Darndest thing though, seems there were no drugs in his system at all.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Really?” Cas asks, swiping a leftover fry off Dean’s plate.

“Mmm, ‘fraid so. I think maybe you boys were onto something.”

“Yeah, go figure,” Dean mutters, pulling his plate out of Cas’ reach.

“Well, we’ll keep working our angles here, Sheriff. Was there anything else?” Cas adds, now sporting an unfairly adorable pout as he eyes Dean’s inaccessible fries.

“Mmm, yeah, there was one other thing. Seems we’ve got another body on our hands here.”

“What?” Dean asks sharply.

“Oh, hey there, Agent Davies,” Cobbler calls. “Yeah, seems there was a call in late last night. Looks to be a drifter or a homeless fella. No wallet on him, so we got no ID so far. All dried up though, like Jeffords, and he’s got them triangle dots on his neck too. Figured you fellas’d wanna know.”

Dean’s already on his feet, pulling out his wallet and throwing some bills down on the table.

“Yes, Sheriff, we’d like to know these things,” Cas says, and Dean hopes the Sheriff doesn’t catch the heavy sarcasm.

Dean reaches for the phone, and Cas hands it over and shuffles out of the booth. “Where was the second body found, Sheriff?”

“Not too far from the first, as I understand it. Mile or two down the road. Looks like he coulda been hitchhiking. We’ve got it marked on the map, if you fellas want to come in for a look.”

“Yeah, we’re on our way over now.” Dean hangs up the phone and looks over at Cas. “Crap.”

Cas grimaces. “Sam will have something for us soon,” he says.

“Yeah, let’s hope so.”

 

 

The afternoon is wearing on, Sam still hasn’t called, and Dean’s draining his fifth cup of bad, cop-made coffee. So much for his resolution. Sheriff Cobbler had given them use of a little conference room, and Cas is sitting at the table pouring over their files while Dean examines the topographical map of the area taped to the wall, marking locations with pins. They’re nowhere.

Dean’s contemplating cup number six when his phone finally goes off. “Thank Christ,” he says, answering and turning on speakerphone. “Took you long enough, we’ve got another body.”

“Damn, sorry guys. There was a lot to dig through.”

Dean’s about to shoot back an angry retort when he catches Cas’ eye. There’s a warning in there, so Dean bites it back and ploughs on. “Yeah, no problem. What d’you got?”

“Okay, so it looks like there’s actually _two_ versions of the chupacabra. There’s the one that’s kinda lizard-like and stands on two legs.”

“Yeah, that’s what Dad and I got down in Mexico that one time,” Dean confirms.

“Right,” Sam says. “And the same as you and me a few years ago in Texas. But it turns out there’s a second kind, a cousin or a subspecies or something. They’re supposed to be a little more like dogs or wolves, going on four legs and with a whole mess of spikes down the back.”

Dean nods. “Okaaaay, and how does this help us exactly?”

“Well, it seems like the second kind doesn’t stick as much to the hot and dry climate as the lizard-kind does. They’ve been known to make their dens in forests or dense brush, as long as it’s close to their food supply.”

Cas walks to the map on the wall. “I wouldn’t call it much of a forest, but there’s a slightly wooded area not too far from where our bodies have been found.”

Dean joins him, studying the map. “Yeah, it’s close by, but I dunno about a food supply. It’s still kind of the middle of nowhere.”

Cas traces a finger across a spot on the map. “Dean, you mentioned there’ve been some animal deaths?”

Dean frowns, turning back to his notes strewn about the table. “Yeah, there was some sheep at one farm, a couple cows at another, and,” he winces “Ouch. A cocker spaniel.”

Cas leans closer to the map. “Was one of those farms Green Glades Ranch?”

Dean blinks. “Yeah, the sheep.”

Cas nods. “It’s here, about half a mile from the woods.”

“Hey, alright!” Dean smiles. “We’ve got us a monster lair.” He claps Cas on the shoulder. “Woods shouldn’t take too long to search, looks like they’re only about a quarter mile wide. Should have this wrapped up by tonight.”

“Alright, good!” says Sam. “Glad I could be of help,” he adds, more than a little smug.

“Yeah yeah, thanks for the assist, book-boy.” Dean’s about to hang up, but then he catches Cas’ eye. With effort, he lets go of the snark. “Your work here is done, go read about your Mayans or whatever. And, thanks again, man.”

“. . . Any time, Dean. Let me know when you guys are out of there.”

“Thank you for your help, Sam,” Cas adds, and Dean hangs up the phone.

Cas looks bizarrely proud of him, but Dean is eager to move on, so he ignores him. “Okay, let’s stop by the motel, ditch the monkey suits, and head on out there,” he says, gathering up their files to leave.

Cas shakes his head in a resigned sort of way, but goes with it anyway. “Do we need anything special to kill a chupacabra? Silver, iron?”

“Nope, they go down pretty easy. They’re not really a challenge, actually, as far as monsters go. Only about as smart as your typical wild animal. Piece of cake.”

 

 

The sun is nearly setting by the time they start their search, and despite his best efforts, Dean wastes what little daylight remains to them by being wholly and utterly distracted by the sight of Cas in jeans – or more specifically, Cas’ _ass_ in jeans – which remains a novelty even after several months of humanity.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take them long to find the chupacabra’s lair, which is little more than a mess of half-rotted logs and tree branches formed up against a small hill. Dean cautiously peers inside, gun muzzle pointed down but at the ready.

“Doesn’t look like there’s anybody home. This is definitely it though; still smells. It’ll be back.”

Cas looks troubled. “Do you think it’s out killing right now?”

Dean deliberates a moment. “It’s possible, but we had almost a week between victims. With any luck it’s just snacking on some sheep over at that farm.”

Cas nods. “I guess then we wait,” he says, then turns and starts scouting the area behind them. They find a tangle of bushes in easy shooting distance of the den, and then settle in, bellies to the ground.

The woods are quiet all around them as the sky grows darker. A heavy breeze occasionally wafts through the sparsely-treed forest.

“Ugh, I’ll be glad when we get outta here,” Dean complains quietly, wrinkling his nose. “That smell is really getting to me.”

“It certainly is. . . fetid,” Cas agrees.

Dean snorts. “‘Fetid.’ Okay, Mr. Lexicon.”

They’re quiet for a moment, but Dean can tell Cas is building up to saying something.

“Dean,” Cas starts, and Dean knows that tone, tries to slam on the breaks right then and there.

“Cas, this is really not the time or the place.”

Cas continues on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Dean, I know this thing with Sam is still bothering you –”

“Damnit, Cas, can we not do this right now?”

“But I also know it’s not just Sam.”

Dean pauses, looking at Cas warily.

Cas goes on cautiously. “I don’t have parents, not really, so I know I can’t ever really understand how this is for you. But I know that you’re angry with your mother, and I want to help if I can.”

Cas looks so earnest, so open, and Dean feels his heart seize a little. He closes his eyes, dropping his head down to face the ground, then takes a breath, finally voicing the thought that’s been playing on repeat in his head for the last few weeks.

“She was relieved.”

“Relieved?”

“When I said I wanted to go. Wanted to get back out here, get back to work. I told her, and she was relieved.” Dean laughs bitterly. “She just couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”

Dean looks up, and for some reason Cas has that small, fond smile back on his face. “What?”

“You really can’t see it, can you?” He asks, gentle.

“See what?”

“How very alike you are. You’re cut from the same cloth, the two of you.”

Dean scoffs, but Cas presses on, keeping his voice low.

“Yes, she may have been relieved, Dean. But it wasn’t because she wanted to get away from you. She needed to get back out here too, for the same reasons you did. She’s a hunter. She was raised in this life, it’s what she knows and what she’s good at. You can’t fault her for wanting the same things you do.”

“Maybe not,” Dean admits. “But she left the life, Cas. She wanted out, she wanted normal.”

“So did Sam,” Cas returns, then he adds, quieter, “So did you, once.”

Dean feels an uncomfortable shift in his stomach. “That was different.”

Cas nods. “Yes, it was. But tell me, Dean. When you decided to get back out here, was it to get away from your mother? Or was it because you’re a hunter, and you wanted to help people.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

Cas smiles at him again. “See? Cut from the same cloth.”

After a moment, Dean chuckles. “When did you get so good at head shrinking?”

Cas looks somewhat demoralised for a moment. “I’ve been watching _Jenny Jones_ again,” he says ruefully.

A laugh punches its way out of Dean’s chest before he has a chance to reign it in, and no sooner has the sound left him than Cas’ hand is clapped over his mouth. Dean startles, and Cas leans in closer to him. Dean’s eyes go wide and his heart suddenly starts beating a rapid tattoo.

“Cmf?” He tries from behind Cas’ large palm.

“Shh,” Cas whispers, eyes on a spot to the left of the den. “I think it’s back.”

Right, the case. The giant, spiney, bloodsucker they’re supposed to be hunting instead of having a Lifetime Moment.

Dean berates himself for getting distracted and slowly cocks his gun and eases it forward, carefully parting the leaves in front of them with the muzzle. He sees Cas do the same out of the corner of his eye.

The chupacabra is moving quietly through the bush; Dean’s amazed Cas noticed it at all. There’s only a light padding of paws on the ground, and in the darkness its grey skin is blending almost perfectly in with the trees around it.

Dean’s just shifting forward slightly to get a better angle when the creature freezes, long, hairless snout turning sharply up and to the right, pointing almost directly at them. Dean can feel Cas beside him, breathing in slow, steady breaths as he silently adjusts his own aim.

The chupacabra hasn’t exactly spotted them yet, but it’s started moving nearer to their hiding spot and Dean knows the moment is almost upon them. As slowly and stealthily as he can, he reaches out his left hand and places three fingers on Cas’ side.

Cas gives a tiny nod.

Dean eases off then presses back down with two.

The chupacabra slinks closer, its grey eyes reflecting dully in the darkness as it scans the trees.

Dean presses down once, quickly, and then two shots crack sharply through the din.

There’s a pathetic yelp and the thud of a body falling, then silence again.

Keeping their guns in front of them, Dean and Cas both rise out from their blind, cautiously approaching the creature. There’s a pool of dark blood gathering on the forest floor around its head. Dean lowers his gun and bends to check his bullet hole, squarely between the eyes. Cas got it in the centre of the neck, and the wound is still bleeding sluggishly.

“Alright, not bad,” he says, straightening up. “Go team!”

Cas frowns at the body. “I was aiming for his head too.”

“Ah,” Dean says. “Well, we’ll work on guns. And you’re still better with a blade than I’ll ever be. C’mon, let’s torch this fucker and get outta here.”

 

 

They’re out of Fort Lauderdale by 8am the next morning, after a quick call to Sheriff Cobbler.

“Wild dog, you’re sayin,’” the sheriff says wonderingly. “No kiddin.’”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Cas assures him as Dean pulls out from the motel. “Thankfully we found it and. . . put it down. You shouldn’t have any more trouble.”

“Well thank heavens for that,” Cobbler says. “Can’t thank you fellas enough for all your help. Come on back down for a visit any time.”

“. . . Yeah, we’ll be sure to do that,” Dean says. “Take care, Sheriff.”

Cas hangs up, and Dean laughs out loud. “God, what a moron. Shoulda reminded him to get his rabies shot.”

“I’ll just do it next time we go down there to visit,” Cas says idly.

They’re heading out onto the interstate when Dean’s phone rings. He pulls it from his pants and hands it over to Cas.

“It’s Sam, answer it, would ya?”

Cas slides his thumb across the screen. “Hello, Sam. Dean’s driving.”

“Hey guys, you made it out of town yet?”

“Yeah, heading North now,” Dean responds.

“Well, if you want it, I’ve got a case for you.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean turns to meet Cas eyes. He gives a little nod. “Sure, Sammy, what d’you got?”

 


	2. Track 2: In the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunting with Cas is very different from hunting with Sam. 
> 
> Dean and Cas are both soldiers, both well trained, but they’d been taught to fight different kinds of battles, and from one fight to the next Dean’s never sure what kind of partner he’ll be working with. He thinks maybe Cas doesn’t know either.

Though the winds of change may blow around you, but that will always be so  
When love is pain it can devour you, if you are never alone  
I would share your load. I would share your load

 

 

 

 

Hunting with Cas is very different from hunting with Sam.

Dean and Cas knew how to work together; in fact they were good at it and always had been. From the beginning they’d just _fit_ , falling into step almost instantly and balancing each other out. And after all the years and oceans of water under the bridge, they trusted one another. That had to count for a lot.

They just needed some time to adjust to their new normal.

Cas had taken to his renewed humanity in a way he hadn’t the first time, spending their previous few months in the bunker honing his new fighting technique. When sparring, he could keep up with Sam and Dean (and more impressively, Mary too), and he still wielded his angel blade like it was an extension of his own arm. In fact, Dean’s pretty sure Cas could kill him with a tube of toothpaste if he was so inclined. But when they set out from the bunker, a new dynamic had fallen into place – one without Cas’ angel powers and without Sam there as backup.

It was harder than Dean had anticipated, getting used to Sam’s absence. The two of them had thirty years of practice working together. In a fight, Dean knew what it meant when Sam twitched his lips and shifted his weight back and forth. He knew Sam would minutely tighten his grip on his weapon when he was preparing to fire, and he knew that Sam telegraphed his punches when he was cornered.

They had been trained together, had sparred and wrestled under John’s tutelage from the time Sam could walk. Sam was efficient, his style studied, and his technique refined. Predictable.

Cas was different. He didn’t have a style, not really – he had a dozen styles, and he chose whichever one suited the moment best. With his blade his actions were tight and controlled, graceful almost. He flipped and twirled the metal between his hands and practically danced around their enemies. And he was a brawler with his fists, brutal, taking heavy swings that even without mojo backing them up could put a demon halfway through a wall.

Dean and Cas are both soldiers, both well trained, but they’d been taught to fight different kinds of battles, and from one fight to the next Dean’s never sure what kind of partner he’ll be working with. He thinks maybe Cas doesn’t know either; he’s still adjusting to the loss of his powers and occasionally forgets his new limitations.

So it’s not anybody’s fault, not really, when more often than not over the last few weeks either Dean or Cas (or both of them, once or twice) had ended a hunt a little more banged up than they ordinarily would have. It wasn’t Dean’s fault he’d misinterpreted Cas’ hand gestures as they closed in on a nest of sleeping vamps, and it wasn’t Cas’ fault he lost valuable seconds reaching out an instinctual palm to the forehead of a sentry. In the moment it had taken Cas to realize his mistake and swing out with his machete, the guard had sounded the alarm and what should have been a swift and silent guerrilla attack turned into a frantic melee. When all was said and done the vampires went down, but Cas had a dislocated shoulder and Dean’s neck was more than a bit gnawed on.

They just needed a little time.

 

 

It’s a few weeks after the botched vamp hunt that Dean finally agrees to let Cas drive. They’d been pushing hard toward Port Huron and a potential demon possession for nine hours already, but still had another four to go. Dean’s eyes were fighting to stay open, and the third time the Impala drifted a little too close to the shoulder he finally relented.

“Are you sure you’re up for this? You’re looking worse than me right now,” Dean tries, eyeing the dark circles under Cas’ eyes as he watches Cas adjust the mirrors.

“Considering how close _you_ just came to falling asleep, I’d say how I’m feeling is irrelevant,” Cas snipes, pulling smoothly out onto the highway.

“Easy, easy, Cas! Go a little slower on the wheel there, she’s very responsive.”

“I know how to drive, Dean.”

“Oh do you?” Dean presses. “Cause Sam told me you crashed that piece of crap Continental of yours into a tree once.”

“I was _dying_ at the time, Dean.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

The road bends and Dean clutches the dashboard in abject terror. “Damnit, Cas, I said take it easy on the wheel!”

Cas turns to glare at him briefly before angling his head back to the road. “I’m not a bad driver, Dean. _You’re_ just a bad passenger.”

Dean starts to splutter indignantly, but Cas cuts him off almost instantly.

“Dean, we told Sam we’d get to Port Huron by tonight. You are too tired to drive safely. So either we find a place to sleep for the night and risk someone else dying before we can get there, or you shut up, take a nap, and stop distracting me.”

Dean’s mouth slams shut and he gulps. Cas has a point; he _is_ tired, exhausted really, and he’s ridden shotgun in Cas’ car before – Dean knows he’s overreacting. Besides, between the authoritative tone and the sight of Cas sitting calm and confident behind Baby’s wheel, Dean can’t pretend he’s not a little turned on.

“Alright, fine. Just. . . be careful. And don’t ride the breaks.”

Dean can tell Cas is fighting back a massive eye roll as he leans down and digs out the shoebox of cassettes. Dean reaches across the bench. “Here, I got it.”

But Cas has picked up a tape already and he slides it smoothly into the deck. “I seem to recall a rule about drivers picking the music.” He raises one challenging eyebrow at Dean, then hits play.

Dean narrows his eyes at him for a moment, then burrows his head down in his jacket and leans against the door. “You’re lucky you picked _Physical Graffiti.”_

 

 

The hunting missteps and the driving lessons were one thing, but it’s the haunting in Carson City where Dean’s problems really start to come to a head.

Chief among those problems was the reality of sharing prolonged close quarters with Cas – his best friend, his family, his brother-in-arms.

Only it was more than a few years ago that Dean’s feelings had sailed past _brotherly_ and ground firmly to shore somewhere between _romantic_ and _love-of-my-goddamn-life_.

Dean’s prepared for this though, they could still work together; he’s had literal years of practice pushing his feelings for Cas down, drowning them under gallons of whiskey. He’s long since abandoned the fantasy that the two of them could figure something out together, and he’s even made peace with that, at least to a point.

That is not the most pressing issue right now.

The issue right now, the situation he had not at all prepared for, was a broken air conditioner in an unseasonably hot Nevada motel, and a former angel currently shiny with sweat and oblivious to the complete and total havoc he was wreaking on Dean’s nervous system.

“Dean?”

Dean startles slightly, and quickly pulls his eyes up from where they’ve been staring, entranced, at the moisture beading on Cas’ slightly exposed collarbone. “Uh-huh?” he asks intelligently.

Cas frowns at him. “I said I think we should head back to the coroner’s office tomorrow, to double check Stacey Huang had the same pattern of bruises as her sister.”

“Uh, yeah. Good plan,” Dean swallows, dropping his head to stare blindly at the mass of papers on the table in front of him.

“Are you alright, Dean? If you want to sleep, I can keep going,” Cas says, nodding to the laptop resting on his thighs.

Cas is stretched out across his bed, leaning back against the headboard and stripped down to just his suit pants and dress shirt, top buttons unpopped. The tie has disappeared and his sleeves are rolled up and Dean is having a really, _really_ hard time looking at him. Which is kind of a poor choice of words, he thinks, briefly abandoning his intense stare at the case files to glare down at the traitorous bulge forming in his pants.

“Yeah, man, it’s just, you know, hot in here,” he swallows, looking back up and over to Cas again and – big mistake.

Cas is tilting his head and looking concerned and it should _not_ be Dean’s first instinct to want to shove Cas’ laptop to the ground and lick up the line of sweat running down his neck.

“Aren’t you. . . aren’t you hot at all?”

Jesus CHRIST what is he saying? A difference of a few degrees and Dean’s brain short-circuits and starts spouting the world’s porniest pick-up lines.

Cas, to his credit, just shrugs and turns his attention back to the computer. “A little, but it doesn’t really bother me. I’d rather be hot than cold.”

Dean’s a smarter man than people give him credit for, so he takes his out when he sees it. He stands, attempting a huff of laughter that comes out closer to a strangled cough. “Yeah, well I’m dying here. Gonna try a cold shower.”

He makes a beeline for the bathroom, nearly forgetting to grab his duffel from the floor. Once safely on the other side, he leans back against the door and palms his erection through his pants.

Yes, he _could_ go for a cold shower, but it’s obvious to him at this point he’s too far gone to just will this hard-on away. Instead he turns on the water warm and peels off his own sweaty suit, climbing under the spray and bracing one hand on the tiled wall. He bites his bottom lip to stifle his first groan of relief as his hand wraps around his cock, gone rock hard and red. Ordinarily he’d take his time, tease himself a little, but Cas had taken him by surprise and Dean’s let himself get too worked up too quickly.

A lifetime of shared motel rooms means Dean is well practiced in the art of the quick and silent jerk-off, and so he strokes himself efficiently, his hand on the wall forming a fist as he draws closer to the edge. He fleetingly attempts to keep his mind blank, but predictably his imagination conjures images of Cas: above him, behind him, beneath him as Dean draws a slow tongue over his sweat-covered chest. Dean comes with an almost silent gasp, slick fluid painting stripes on the tile.

The inevitable feeling of shame rises up as Dean turns the water temperature down to cool and rinses the wall. He hurries through the rest of his routine, letting the cold water sluice away the sweat from his skin.

He’d hoped that Cas had turned in by the time he got out of the bathroom, but Cas is still awake, fingers tapping rapidly across the keyboard. Dean slides into bed and switches off his lamp before turning his head to look at him.

“Cas?”

“Hmm?” he responds, not looking over.

“It’s after midnight. This is the part where you go to sleep, remember?”

Cas nods vaguely. “Yeah, I’m almost done.”

Dean rolls onto his back, closing his eyes against the blue glow. “You’re gonna burn out, man.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Cas says pointedly, and Dean lets it drop, pulling his pillow out from under his head to drop it over his face, blocking out the light.

 

 

There’s a family of ghouls snacking on the residents of West Highlands Cemetery in Russellville, Alabama. They’re currently holed up in a mausoleum four rows over from where Dean and Cas are crouched, weapons at the ready.

“You sure you don’t want your Beretta, man?” Dean asks quietly as Cas slips his angel blade from his jeans. “Ghouls need a headshot, might be easier.”

Cas shakes his head. “It’s alright, I can take off a head with this.”

“You’re kinda terrifying, you know that?”

Cas just smirks.

“Alright, there’s just three of them; mummy, daddy, and one little baby monster,” Dean double-checks the rounds in his Colt. “I’ll go around front, hopefully catch ‘em by surprise and take out as many as I can. Rest of them will try to make it out the back entrance, and they’ll get a face full of angel blade. Got it?”

Cas nods, his face adopting the focused and intense expression Dean always liked to call ‘smitey,’ grace or no grace. Dean smiles and they stand, moving forward silently before splitting off in their agreed upon directions.

Dean reaches the front door and pauses, giving Cas a few extra seconds to get into place around back. He brings his gun up, cocks it quietly, and then pulls the door open wide.

Apparently it’s the annual ghoul family reunion or something, because instead of finding a little nuclear family of three, Dean walks in on no fewer than seven ghouls crouched over a mouldering corpse. They all turn grey, blood-covered faces up to him in unison.

Fuck.

“Well, ain’t this a party!” he calls, then starts shooting.

One goes down, then another, but unfortunately the ghouls seem to like their odds. Instead of retreating, the remaining ghouls rise up, shrieking, and charge toward the front door.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

“CAS!” Dean bellows, backing up and firing off more shots. He hits one, but only catches another in the shoulder. His next shot misses completely.

Dean’s stumbling backwards when he bowls right into a knee-high tombstone. He goes ass over tea kettle and lands on his back, totally winded.

In a second, a ghoul is on him, rotted breath wheezing across Dean’s face as cold hands close around his throat. The gun dropped from Dean’s hand when he fell, and it’s lying out of reach on the grass. He abandons it in favour of trying to drag the ghoul’s hands from his neck.

Through the blood pounding in his ears, Dean can suddenly hear the unmistakeable sounds of a swishing blade. Cas has finally made it out front, it seems, and from what Dean can tell he’s making quick work of the remaining ghouls.

“ _Dean!_ ” Cas’ urgent voice rings out and Dean looks up through hazy eyes to see Cas’ silver blade soar through the air towards him. Dean reaches out a hand and snags it before it can hit the soft ground beside him, and with a decisive swing he embeds the blade in the ghoul’s skull.

Blood and grey matter spatter across Dean’s face and he nearly heaves. As if he wasn’t already having oxygen issues, the ghoul then drops down on top of him.

With effort, Dean shoves it off and then takes a moment to lie there, regaining his breath, before propping himself up on his elbows with a groan.

Cas is bent double, breathing hard with his hands on his knees, but he looks unhurt. “I guess there were more than three of them,” he says wryly.

Dean tries to laugh, but his throat is sore and it’s still hard to breathe. “That all of them?” He eventually croaks out.

It’s at that moment there’s a flurry of movement behind Cas, and the last remaining ghoul shoots out from where it’d been hiding by the mausoleum and makes a break for the road.

It’s already twenty feet away but Dean flings out onto his stomach in an instant, grabbing his Colt and tossing it up into Cas’ waiting hand.

Cas fires once and the ghoul falls.

“. . . _Now_ that’s all of them,” says Cas.

Dean laughs again, a little hysterically, and plants his brain-spattered face in the dirt.

 

 

It’s mid-October when they stop at a rinky-dink gas station somewhere in Montana and Dean is struck by a little inspiration. Cas is filling up Baby while Dean surfs the aisles, dropping their usual snack foods in a basket. He’s waiting in line at the till when he spots the shelf of Wonderbread and he doubles back, grabbing a loaf plus a jar each of peanut butter and jelly.

It’s a few hours later when Cas pokes hungry fingers into the bag of snacks and finds them. “What’s this?” he asks, frowning.

Dean, annoyingly, feels his cheeks turn a little pink. “Yeah, um, I dunno, I remember Sam mentioned you like PB&J, and I saw the stuff in the store back there. Figured it’d be a good snack for days like this, when we’re too far from civilization for a decent burger.” He shifts a little, not looking at Cas. “I mean, if you still like it, that is.”

Dean doesn’t need to turn his head to hear the smile in Cas’ voice. “I do, Dean. Thank you.”

“Yeah, um, don’t mention it,” Dean mumbles.

They’re quiet for a few miles, but it’s a good quiet. Companionable.

“I’m,” Dean starts, fumbling a little. “Look man, I’m just. . . I’m glad you’re here. Out here with me. When Sam wanted to stay behind, I worried maybe you would too. And I dunno, I’m just glad you didn’t.”

Cas is staring at him, probably a little confused by the unexpected bit of emotional honesty. Dean’s pretty surprised himself.

He takes another breath. “Just, thanks, I guess.”

“Of course, Dean,” says Cas. He smiles again, softly, then turns his head out the front window.

Dean clears his throat and leans forward to twist the volume dial up on the radio. There’s still a lot for the two of them to get used to. Cas isn’t Sam, but that’s not really a bad thing. Working with Cas – _living_ with Cas – is complicated, and sometimes Dean spends his days swinging back and forth between terrified and elated.

Though they might crash and burn here or there, they’re slowly but surely finding a rhythm. They’ll figure it out; they’ve been through too much not to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is up!  
> Pass it on, tell your friends.  
> I'm always a slut for kudos. 
> 
> Spotify playlist for the fic:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG


	3. Track 3: Black Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel has been in hospitals before. He’s interviewed witnesses and examined remains; he’s healed those he could, and been berated by his loved ones when he’s been powerless to step in. He’s woken up in a hospital bed himself, first alone and human, and then again fully powered but with his mind a jumbled mess of hell visions and guilt. 
> 
> And he has sat by Dean Winchester’s bedside. 
> 
> And in all his long, long life, he has never felt so powerless.

Eyes that shine, burnin' red,  
Dreams of you all through my head.

 

 

Castiel has been in hospitals before. He’s interviewed witnesses and examined remains; he’s healed those he could, and been berated by his loved ones when he’s been powerless to step in. He’s woken up in a hospital bed himself, first alone and human, and then again fully powered but with his mind a jumbled mess of hell visions and guilt.

And he has sat by Dean Winchester’s bedside.

And in all his long, long life, he has never felt so powerless.

It’s different this time, than it was the first. With Alistair, Castiel had found it hard to look at Dean, with his cuts and bruises and protruding tubes and wires. Not because he was squeamish, but rather the sight of Dean so gravely hurt had affected Castiel in a way for which he had been wholly unprepared. That moment, that day spent in a straightbacked hospital chair, had sparked something in him. It was something confusing and overwhelming, and at the time, had completely defied understanding.

It would be many years before Castiel could give that something a name.

And now, as he once again sits by Dean’s bedside, he’s wishing desperately that he’d told Dean the truth the moment he’d realized it.

A nurse comes into the room then. Castiel thinks her name is Nicole, but he hadn’t really been listening when she’d introduced herself the first time. She’s young, but looks hardy. Castiel supposes that like hunters, healers are accustomed to death.

“You know, the couches out there in the waiting room are a lot comfier than they look,” she tries gently as she picks up the clipboard from the end of Dean’s bed. “It’s just down the hall, we’d be able to come get you in a second. I’m sure you could use some rest.” She offers a kind smile as she goes about her duties, marking checks on the clipboard and fiddling with the many buttons and monitors.

Castiel shakes his head. “I’ll stay here.” The only thing worse than sitting here, he thinks, would be sitting outside alone. Castiel will stay in this room and watch Dean’s face, waiting for the flicker of his eyelids or the twitch of his mouth.

Nicole nods, as though she expected his response. “You should try to get some rest anyway, even if it’s in here.” Her words are well-meaning, her face sympathetic, and Castiel wishes desperately that she would leave. “The doctor thinks it might be a while longer before he regains consciousness. That was a pretty nasty knock he took to the head.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything. His hands fidget with his phone.

Nicole nods down at it. “Do you have more family on the way? Someone to come be with you?”

Castiel’s eyes flick to her briefly, before returning to Dean’s bruised and puffy face. “They’re on their way, but they’re coming from some distance. It’ll be a few days.”

“I see,” she says. “And how’re you doing? When was the last time somebody looked at your shoulder?”

Castiel’s hand comes up briefly to the gauze covering his shoulder and upper arm. “I’m fine. I’ve been taking the Advil you left for me,” he lies.

She nods approvingly. “Well, in any case, try to get some rest if you can, or you won’t be any good to him when he wakes up.”

Castiel almost laughs out loud. This is a fact he knows well.

Nicole is shifting uncomfortably, and Castiel thinks perhaps he’s put her off. He can’t be bothered to care too much.

“The doctor will be in in a little while to check on his side,” she says, before retreating to the hallway, and presumably more stimulating conversation.

 

 

Sam calls him a few hours later. In the background Castiel can hear the rushing of cars on the highway; they must be stopped for gas.

“Anything yet?” Sam asks.

“No,” Castiel says. He stands from his chair, moving over towards the window overlooking the parking lot. “The wounds on his side are no longer life-threatening, and the broken bones are mending. With rest, they should heal fine.” Castiel swallows. “But he’s still unconscious.”

Sam sucks in a breath. “Right. Well, we’re coming. This whole shifter mess took a lot longer to clean up than we’d hoped. We’re coming up on Flagstaff now, but Mom’s a fast driver. We’ll be there soon as we can.”

“Yeah,” Castiel says. “That’s good.”

“How’re you doing, man?”

Castiel stays silent.

“Look,” Sam starts, “I know what you’re thinking, Cas, and you can just stop it right there. This isn’t your fault.”

“I should have figured it out sooner. I should have realized what we were up against. Maybe if I had –”

“Cas, this is the job. This is our lives. And yeah, it sucks sometimes, a lot. And we get hurt. But you had his back, and you got him out of there. You saved his life. _That’s_ what matters.”

Again, Castiel doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing _to_ say.

There’s a rustling and fumbling on Sam’s end of the phone.

“Castiel?”

Mary’s voice is calm, collected. Castiel wishes she would shout at him.

“Hello, Mary,” he says. “I still don’t know anything yet. We won’t know the extent of the damage until he’s conscious.” The words leave him in a rush and Mary has to cut him off with soft hushing sounds.

“I know, it’s okay,” she says. She’s trying to soothe him, and it’s making him feel so much worse. “We’re on our way now. You just stay with him, try to take it easy. We’re on our way,” she repeats, and Castiel closes his eyes, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

He hangs up the phone and returns to his chair.

 

 

Castiel isn’t eating. He sees the nurses whispering together, throwing him worried looks. He ignores them.

He is hungry; he’s been sitting by Dean’s bedside for over a day and he’s neither eaten nor slept, but the thought of food is off-putting. A nurse will suggest the snack machine, or a sandwich from the cafeteria downstairs, and his stomach will pitch and roll.

He hasn’t showered either, and as little as Castiel wants to leave Dean’s side, he knows his current state of unkemptness is bordering on socially unacceptable. He ducks into the little adjoining bathroom and does his best with the sink and a washcloth snagged from the nurse’s station. Castiel had grabbed Dean’s duffelbag from the trunk when he’d moved the car from the ambulance parking zone, and he digs into it now, pulling out a clean t-shirt for himself.

Castiel stares at his reflection in the mirror. He hasn’t shaved, his hair is hanging flat across his forehead, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Castiel bends over the sink and turns on the faucet, splashing water up over his face. The shock of cold serves to wake him up a little, and he returns to Dean’s bedside.

Time stretches out around him. Nurses come in and out of the room, taking readings and making notes. The doctor stops by every few hours, examining Dean’s chart and checking the bandages up his side and arm.

“It’s time to change these dressings,” she says. Dr. Heyl, Castiel thinks. “Maybe you want to step outside for a bit? Get some coffee, some water? This isn’t going to be pretty.”

Castiel wants to tell her that he has seen Dean in far worse shape. He wants to explain that he once rebuilt Dean’s entire body, piecing him back together with bone and blood. That Castiel held Dean’s mangled and hell-twisted soul in his hands as he flew through fire.

“I’ll stay,” he says instead.

Dr. Heyl summons a nurse and some orderlies, and Castiel stands to help. Together they roll Dean onto his side and pull away his hospital gown.

Above the wrappings, Dean’s chest and left side is a mottled spread of purple, and when the bandages are carefully peeled away they’re wet with sticky, yellow fluid. Long, deep gashes run vertically down his flank, from an inch below his tattoo to just above the hip. His left forearm is bandaged too, and encased in a hard cast.

Once upon a time, Castiel could lay one finger on Dean and heal him; knit his bones back together and close the cuts in an instant. Now all he can do is grip Dean’s shoulder tightly while human doctors do what they can.

The nurse finishes wrapping the wounds and slowly they all lower Dean down onto his back. Castiel keeps his hand on Dean’s shoulder an extra moment before sinking into his chair again. The nurse and the orderlies leave, but Dr. Heyl stays behind to check Dean’s pupils.

When she finishes, she turns to look at Castiel. “Are you a man of faith, Mr. Davies?” she asks.

“No,” he responds. She frowns at his abruptness, and he eyes the little silver cross at her neck. “At least, not faith like yours,” he amends.

She nods. “Well, whatever it is you believe, hold onto it. Prayer, faith. It can help.” She leaves the room.

Castiel doesn’t pray.

There’s no point, not anymore. He’s seen his father for who, for _what_ He is, and He is not a man worthy of _faith_.

Truth be told, Castiel put his faith in another man a long, long time ago, and he has yet to be disappointed. 

 

 

Castiel is dozing upright in his chair when he sees Dean’s right hand twitch. Castiel’s heart leaps to his throat but he’s still frozen in place, wide-eyed, as he watches Dean furrow his brow, then slowly blink his way to consciousness. Dean’s staring up at the ceiling dazedly, and Castiel can’t speak.

Dean shifts his head then, taking in the mess of monitors and equipment to his left. Wincing, he then turns over and his eyes find Castiel. They look at each other a moment before Castiel finds his voice.

“Hey,” he manages.

Dean’s lips twitch a little in a smile, and it’s the most miraculous thing Castiel has ever seen. Which, for a former angel, is saying something.

“Ow,” Dean says back, his voice hoarse and croaky with disuse.

“Yeah, you. . . you’re pretty banged up. Try to stay still.” Castiel hears the words come out of his own mouth, but it feels as if he’s very far away. Relief and renewed fear of what might have been are flooding his brain and he still hasn’t moved an inch.

“Feels like I got sat on by a tank,” he closes his eyes against the pain and Castiel wishes he wouldn’t. He’s missed Dean’s eyes. “Where are we?”

“Maine. Millinocket Hospital,” he says. Dean opens his eyes again, hazy and confused. “Do you remember what happened?”

Dean looks off a little ways, concentrating. “The case, in Medway. The skinwalkers –”

“– Weren’t skinwalkers,” Castiel finishes.

“Hellhound,” Dean’s voice wavers, just a little, and he swallows. “Fuck.”

Castiel nods. “Lucifer must have set them loose when he took over Hell. I got it but, not before it got you.” Castiel takes a shaky breath. “You have a broken arm, seven broken ribs, and your side is pretty torn up. Plus you have a concussion. The doctors weren’t sure you would. . . .” He stops there, closing his eyes. “You’ve been unconscious for almost two days.”

“Explains the headache,” Dean tries, and Castiel can tell he’s attempting to lighten the mood. “You call Sam?”

Castiel opens his eyes. “He and Mary are on their way, but they were held up with that shifter job in Arizona. They’re still at least a day out. I’ll call them.”

Dean turns his head back to the ceiling. “’Kay.” He shifts a little, then grimaces and brings his right hand across to his side. “Gonna have a nice bunch of scars from this one, I bet.”

Regret flares in Castiel’s stomach, and not for the first time he wishes desperately for the return of his powers. Instead, he finally stands, reaching out to one of the machines beside the bed and hitting the button to summon a nurse.

“You’re Dean Davies,” Castiel says lowly. “You had your FBI ID on you when I brought you in.”

Dean nods, and Castiel looks down at him a moment. He wants to touch Dean, just lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, his cheek. He needs Dean to _ground_ him.

He forms his hands into fists instead and keeps his arms by his sides.

Dean’s opening his mouth to say something when the doctor comes into the room.

“Well, it’s very good to see you there. I’m Dr. Heyl,” she smiles, stepping up to the bedside. Dean turns his head over from Castiel and gives her his typically crooked smile.

“Hey there Doc. So, can I still go to Disneyland?”

A sound like a laugh and a sob heaves out of Castiel’s chest and he buries his face in his palms.

He loves Dean so much he can’t breathe.

When he finally pulls his head up from his hands, Dean is winking at him and Dr. Heyl is smiling at them both.

“Ah, so _you’re_ the one with the sense of humour,” she teases, then inclines her head across the bed. “I don’t think Castiel’s smiled once in two days.”

“Oh, he’s got a sense of humour,” Dean assures her around a wince. “You’ve just gotta look for it.”

Absurdly, Castiel feels his face growing warm. The doctor doesn’t pay him any mind though, instead she brings out a penlight and starts checking Dean’s eyes.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Dean Davies,” Dean supplies.

“And your birthdate?”

Castiel gives what he hopes is a tiny and unobtrusive nod.

Dean seems to see him out of the corner of his eye. “January 24th.”

Dr. Heyl straightens out, smiling. “Well Dean, you’re in for a long road, but you should come out of this just fine. You’ve got a nasty concussion, so you’ll have to take it easy on that brain for at least a few weeks.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Castiel says, and Dean narrows his eyes at him.

“Ignore him, Doc.” He struggles a little more upright in the bed, carefully adjusting himself. “Now, when can I get out of here?”

The doctor’s amused smile falters a little. “Like I said, you’ve got a lot of recovering to do. We’d like to keep you in here at least another week – your side’s going to need a lot of attention.”

“Uh, no,” Dean frowns. “No disrespect, Doc, but there’s no way I’m staying cooped up in here for a week.”

“ _Dean,_ ” Castiel starts, worry flaring up in him again instantly.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean fires back. “Seriously, Doctor, load me up with whatever kind of pain pills will make me feel less like I lost a fight with a T-Rex, and then we’re hitting the road.”

She purses her lips and shakes her head at him. “I can’t recommend that. You should listen to your husband and stay put a while.”

Castiel freezes; he hadn’t mentioned that part. Dean’s expression flickers slightly, cheeks going a little pink, but he keeps silent.

The doctor makes a few notes on his chart and then replaces it at the end of the bed. “I’ll have a nurse come by in a little bit to check the levels for your pain medication. You should get some rest. _Both_ of you,” she levels a pointed stare at Castiel and then leaves the room.

Dean rolls his head over to look back up at Castiel. “She’s got a point, man. You look like crap.”

Castiel ignores this. “Dean, you can’t actually think we’re walking out of here today.”

“Why not?” he asks, once again struggling to adjust himself on the bed. “I’m not saying we get right back on the job or anything, but if I’m gonna be stuck lying in a bed for a week, it’s damn well gonna be _my_ bed.” He abandons his attempts to move with a pained groan. “We’ll go home, see Sam, take a little vacation.”

“Yes, we’ll do that. But you’re still in no shape to be driving halfway across the country. It’s going to be at least a few days until you can walk –”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of a car, Cas, I’ll be _sitting_ –”

“– And the wounds on your side need to be tended to and kept clean and –”

“– That’s what I have you for!”

“And you almost _died_ , Dean!” the dam breaks and Castiel is shouting now, clenching his fists and breathing hard. “You almost _died_ and I couldn’t heal you, I couldn’t do anything to fix it, I just had to _sit_ here.”

Dean’s slammed his mouth shut and his eyes are wide.

“So you will _excuse me_ for wanting to make sure you’re not going to bleed out in the car halfway to Lebanon,” Castiel finishes, sitting back down in the chair and crossing his arms.

Dean looks admonished, and he finally concedes with a nod. “Alright, a few more days.”

Castiel nods once. “Fine.”

Nicole returns then, smiling and introducing herself to Dean. She adjusts the dials on his morphine pump and shows him how to work the button. Dean presses it gratefully as she leaves.

They’re silent for a moment, and Dean fidgets with the sheets under his right hand.

“So, husband, huh? Unless I really _do_ have some memory loss –”

Castiel feels his cheeks reddening again. “Yeah, um, sorry,” he says awkwardly. “They weren’t going to let me stay with you and it was the only way they’d tell me anything.”

Dean nods. “Right. Well, thanks for staying. Thanks for being here when I woke up,” he says quietly.

“Of course.”

Dean smiles at him softly. “You should call Mom and Sam, let ‘em know Tiny Tim’s gonna walk again.” Dean squints a little, gaze sliding off to the side. “No, wait, that’s not right. . . .”

Castiel nods once, confused. “Yes, I’ll call them. You should get some rest.”

Dean ‘mmm’s in response, and then speaks up again after a moment.

“Was it a nice ceremony?”

Castiel frowns. “What?”

“The ceremony. Our _wedding ceremony_. Was it nice?” Dean is grinning at him dopily. “Did Chuck offi-officiate?” he stumbles. “No, no no no wait, he had to give you away, didn’t he?”

Castiel stares at him. “Um. . . .”

Dean frowns at him, then down at the little control button lying beside him on the bed. “Mmm, I think maybe the morphine’s kickin’ in,” he slurs, settling back into his pillows. “I think I’m gonna pass out now, before I say something stupid.”

“I. . . ” Castiel starts, but before he can come up with an end to his sentence Dean is lost to the world, his eyes shut and mouth lolling open.

Castiel stays in his seat another moment, staring at Dean’s face, then he stands and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Leaving the lights flipped off, he sinks down to the ground, leans his back against the door, and cries.

 

 

“Dude, Sammy, I’m _fine_. Turn around and head back home.”

It’s amazing the difference in the room between yesterday and today; now that Dean is awake and talking it’s as though a pall has been lifted from the entire hospital wing. And despite his grouchiness at being ‘babied,’ Dean is smiling and joking and making the nurses giggle, and Castiel can’t stop staring at him.

Castiel has pulled his chair up closer to the head of the bed. He’s picking idly at the remnants of Dean’s sub-par, hospital-issued tuna sandwich, but eyeing the fruit cup with mild interest.

“Look, you should’ve hung a left up into Kansas when Cas called yesterday, now you’re just wasting gas. I’ll be outta here tomorrow –” Castiel glares at him “. . . or in a little bit, anyway, and we’ll head right on home. Then you can wait on me and my chewed-on ass hand and foot. . . that makes _perfect_ sense, Sam, shut up.”

Castiel decides to go for the fruit cup. He reaches out a surreptitious hand, but Dean sees him and bats it away.

“Hey, paws off the lunch, Cas, I’m an invalid,” he snipes, then makes to hand over the phone. “Here, you tell Sam that he and Mom don’t need to drive another 18 hours just to sit on their thumbs waiting for Nurse Ratched to cut me loose.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but accepts the phone. “Sam, I suggest you both turn around and head back to the bunker. Otherwise you’ll have to put up with Dean’s whining the entire way back home, and I’d like to spare you that if I can.”

“ _Hey_!”

Sam chuckles a little, then sighs. “Yeah, good point. At least it’s proof he really is okay. Or at least, as okay as he can be, given the circumstances.”

“We’ll stay here another few days, then start heading back,” Castiel agrees, silencing Dean’s protests with a look.

“Yeah, alright man. Don’t be afraid to leave him there when he gets too annoying.”

Castiel hangs up and Dean resumes his glaring. “Man who’d’ve thought you’d be a worse mother-hen than Sam. I wanna get out of here, don’t you?”

To be fair, Dean’s recovery is going quickly. His side is starting to scab over, and though his ribs are still bruised and swollen, a lifetime of hunting means Dean’s pain tolerance is pretty high.

“Yes, I do, actually,” Castiel admits quietly. “I don’t like hospitals.”

“No one likes hospitals, Cas.”

Castiel thinks maybe he has a point, but he doesn’t respond.

“Look at me Cas, I’m doing fine. I’ve had way worse than this, and you know it. And I am climbing the walls in here, man. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

Castiel looks at his pleading eyes and sighs inwardly. “Tomorrow,” he concedes, and Dean nearly whoops out loud. Castiel rolls his eyes. “I’ll speak to the nurses about getting you discharged, and see what I need to do with treating your side.”

“Atta boy,” Dean smiles.

Castiel heads out the door to the nurse’s station when Dean’s voice hollers after him “Dude, bring me back a better sandwich!”

 

 

Castiel stares down at the car with a rag in one hand and a bucket of soapy water in the other.

He’s seen more than his fair share of blood, much of it spilled by his own hand. So he doesn’t expect the wave of nausea that forces him to throw out a supporting arm to the metal rooftop. He closes his eyes and tries to block out the metallic tang that he can taste on his tongue and in the back of his throat.

The passenger side of the bench is stained dark red, as is much of the door. There’s an almost perfect handprint on the front dash as well, and drips that landed on the floor. That’s _Dean’s blood_. His life force, his strength, and it’s all over the car and there’s _so much of it._

He hadn’t really noticed, hadn’t been paying attention to the state of the car’s interior when he’d pulled up to the emergency entrance three days earlier. At that moment his whole being was focused on Dean: Dean bleeding, Dean not talking, Dean falling forward in his seat while Castiel breaks every speed limit and traffic law to get to the hospital in time. And it would be in time, it had to be in time, because Castiel wasn’t strong enough to fix him anymore.

The only thought he’d spared for the car was when an attendant from the parking lot told him it had to be moved from the ambulance loading zone or it would be towed away, and for a moment all Castiel could think was that Dean would never forgive him for that.

Dean loves this car, and in a way it is an extension of him. It – _she_ – has been his constant and his protector from the moment he first rode home from the hospital, a newborn in Mary’s arms.

Castiel breathes in deeply through his nose and opens his eyes. He gets to work.

 

 

They leave the hospital the following morning and make it as far as Albany. Despite his assurances, Dean struggled with walking, and he actually cried out in pain when he first tried to climb into the passenger seat. He’d tried stretching out flat across the back bench for a while, but even with Castiel being extra cautious on the turns, Dean had no way of keeping himself steady. So he sat mostly upright in the front seat as they drove, flinching every time they hit a bump or pothole.

They pull up to their motel and Castiel leaves him waiting in the car and checks in at the office. When he comes back out, room keys in hand, he sees Dean struggling to get out of the car by himself, bracing his good arm against the door while his face contorts with pain.

“Damnit, Dean, I told you I’d be right back!” Castiel shouts from halfway across the lot. He hurries the rest of the way over and tries to pull Dean’s right arm across his shoulders.

Dean, however, jerks away. “How many times, Cas, I don’t need a nanny. I’ve got this.” He hobbles off to the door, wincing as he goes. He holds out a hand for his key.

Castiel glares at him as he grabs their duffels from the back seat, along with the plastic bag full of gauze, tape, and other medical supplies.

“You haven’t _got this_ , Dean, you can barely walk, and you’re going to make your injuries worse.” Castiel ignores Dean’s outstretched hand and opens the door himself. “Now, you are the one who wanted to leave the hospital so soon. The trade-off for that is you _let me help you_.” He reaches out his hand but Dean walks right past it and into the room, clutching his side.

Castiel slams the door.

“DAMNIT!” he yells. “Would you stop being a stubborn ass for _one moment_ and _let me help_?”

Castiel’s blood is boiling, his hands are shaking, and then Dean turns around to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice too quiet after Castiel’s explosion. “People shouldn’t have to look after me. I’m not used to it.” He sits down on a bed gingerly.

The anger leaves Castiel almost instantly, but his nerves are still heightened. He tries to take a calming breath. He sets the bags down on the ground and moves toward Dean. Castiel kneels down at his feet, reaching out still trembling hands to Dean’s bootlaces. He tugs at the knots, but he fumbles them, strings slipping from his fingers.

“Cas.”

He wishes his hands would stop shaking. Dean needs rest, he needs his gauze checked, and he needs his boots off.

“ _Cas_.”

Castiel pauses, pulling his hands away.

“Hey.”

Castiel looks up to see Dean staring at him in a very strange way. It’s concerned, but it’s also. . . curious, maybe? His eyes are locked in on Castiel’s and it’s as though he’s trying to understand something.

After a long moment, Dean reaches out with his right hand. He moves it slowly, from where it’s been resting on the bed up to the air beside Castiel’s cheek.

Castiel feels his heart start to pump hard and he sucks in a sharp breath.

Something happens in that moment though, because all of a sudden Dean’s withdrawing his hand and looking down and away from Castiel. His cheeks are a little pink and he shifts back on the bed a bit.

“S’okay,” he mumbles. “I can just kick ‘em off.”

Castiel is momentarily confused, before he remembers the boots. He swallows around his dry throat and stands. “Alright,” he says. “I’m going to give Mary a call.”

He pulls his cell phone from his pocket and walks outside. He doesn’t dial though; instead he leans against the Impala’s trunk and stares unblinkingly at the motel’s flickering neon sign.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Sorrynotsorry for the whumpage. 
> 
> I'm always a slut for kudos.
> 
> I'm pantheonofdiscord on tumblr, come say hi.
> 
> Spotify playlist:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG


	4. Track 4: No Quarter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They sit down, shrugging out of their coats, and Dean leans in across the table. “Okay, what is up with this town? First the lady at the motel, now Doris here with her panties in a twist.” 
> 
> Castiel looks around the room, taking in the vacant looks of the customers. “It’s not just them though. This whole town, it feels. . . off, somehow.” He looks back at Dean. “It’s strange, I can’t quite describe it.”
> 
> Dean shakes his head. “I get it, man, it’s not just you. Something’s really weird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between chapters, friends. I've had a busy week life-wise.  
> Hopefully the extra-long chapter makes up for it.  
> :)

Walking side by side with death, The devil mocks their every step.  
The snow drives back the foot that's slow, The dogs of doom are howling more  
They carry news that must get through, To build a dream for me and you.  
  
They choose the path where no-one goes.

 

 

 

 

 

About two years after they first moved into the bunker, Sam and Dean found a little door in the back of a storage room that led up to the rooftop. They never used it much; maybe on a warm night they’d go up there with a six-pack and a couple lawn chairs, but for the most part they considered it too much of a hassle.

Castiel likes it though. He likes watching the little dots of light move up and down the highway at night, and in the early morning he listens to the birds awakening in the trees all around him.

He’s been coming up here a lot in the last three weeks. When they had finally made it back to the bunker, Sam and Mary had descended on Dean, and Castiel had used the opportunity to fade a little into the background. He told himself it was to give Dean some time with his brother and his mother, but really he was hiding. Things had been. . . uncomfortable since they left the hospital. Whatever ease and routine they’d established in their first weeks working together had faltered, like a foot slipped off a tight rope. They have yet to regain their balance.

Not that Castiel’s trying too hard to fix it. He’s hiding on a roof.

There’s a sharp gust of wind and Castiel shivers, drawing his jacket tighter in on himself. It’s November now, and it’s getting too cold to stay outside for any extended period of time. He stands and checks his watch. It’s almost 7:00am; Sam will be back from his run any minute, so Castiel heads back inside to put coffee on.

The pot is nearly half full when Sam comes into the kitchen and heads straight for the fridge to grab a water bottle.

“Mornin’, Cas. You’re up early.”

Castiel shrugs. Actually, he hadn’t gone to bed at all last night, but he decides not to mention that. “There’s coffee, it just needs another couple minutes.”

“Mmm, thanks,” Sam says, downing the water bottle and running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Mom texted last night, says she made it out to Cedar Rapids fine. She met up with that Ian guy and they think it’s a Rakshasa. I’m on standby for the phones.”

Castiel nods. “Let me know if you need any help today. Maybe I can get some work done on that translation for you.”

There’s the sound of slippered feet coming down the hallway, and Dean rounds the corner. His arm is still in its cast, but he no longer winces with every step.

“Jeez, Cas, you look like death,” is his greeting as he walks across the kitchen to pour himself a cup of not-quite-done coffee. “How long’ve you been up?”

“Long enough to make you coffee. You’re welcome.” Castiel says, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Alright, well, I’m gonna take a shower, then how ‘bout I make us some breakfast? Eggs?” Sam asks, and Castiel and Dean exchange a quick, panicked look.

“Oh hell no, Sammy. Last time you tried to cook for me, I’m pretty sure you set my recovery back a week. You shower and I’ll do breakfast,” Dean says, starting to wave Sam out the door.

Sam purses his lips a little. “Fine, if you don’t want me to cook, then Cas can. But you’re supposed to be resting, Dean.”

“I’m making breakfast, not doing a decathlon, Sam. Besides, I feel great. Just need to get this stupid cast off my arm and I’m golden. Now scram, I’m doing French toast and I don’t trust you anywhere near the stove.”

Sam throws up his hands and walks out, leaving Castiel and Dean alone in the kitchen. Dean shuffles a little, then heads to the fridge to pull out bread and eggs, while Castiel moves to the coffeemaker to pour himself a cup. He takes a long sip, then turns back to Dean, who is facing the counter. Castiel gets the feeling he’d only just spun around.

“Do you want any help?” Castiel asks, trying to keep his voice light.

Dean shakes his head but doesn’t turn to face him. “Nah, I got this.”

Castiel nods to Dean’s back. “Alright. I’ll. . . I guess I’ll be in the library,” he says.

“Yeah, you bet. Call you when it’s ready,” Dean says, voice slightly higher than normal.

Castiel sighs a little, and leaves the room.

 

 

 

 

They’re just finishing up their breakfast when Sam gets an alert on his tablet. He picks it up and reads through an article, frowning slightly.

“What is it, Sam?” Castiel asks.

“I’m not sure, looks like it could be a case, though. Small town in Washington State, Ocean City, has had twelve people go missing in the last two months.”

“That sounds like something,” Castiel agrees, licking sticky syrup off his fingers one by one. Humanity has given him something of a sweet tooth.

“Yeah, for a town of just two hundred people, I’d say so. I think we’ve got a hunter friend up that way I can send. Shannon Hill, she’s near Portland, right Dean? Dean?”

Castiel turns to look at Dean, who is staring at him with a dazed expression. Castiel frowns at him. “Dean, are you alright?”

Dean startles, his face going red. “What?” he asks, voice somewhat panicky.

Castiel and Sam exchange a look. “I was wondering about Shannon Hill. Does she still live in Portland?” Sam asks again.

“Shannon. . . yeah, yeah, I think so, why?” Dean turns now to look at Sam.

Castiel squints at him appraisingly. “Are you alright?” he repeats. “You seem a little distracted. Is it another headache?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says quickly, not turning back to Castiel. “Why d’you wanna know about Shannon Hill, Sam?”

Sam shakes his head, but continues. “I think I’ve got a case up in Washington, multiple missing persons from a small town. I was going to send her if she’s still in the area.”

“Awesome, we’re on it,” Dean says, wiping his hands on a napkin.

“We are?” Castiel asks, eyes narrowing.

“Absolutely. Let’s get this goddamn cast off my arm and hit the road.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Dean, you’re still recovering, you’re not in any shape for a fight right now. Besides, we have no idea what this is yet, who knows what you could be walking into.”

“Sam’s right, Dean. You need more time to heal before we can get back out there,” Castiel says.

But Dean’s already on his feet. “Guys, I’m telling you, I’m good. Watch this.” He raises both arms high over his head, flapping them a little. “See? No pain. No flinching. Ribs are practically healed, claw marks are almost gone. I’m good to go.”

“ _No_ , Dean,” Castiel stands too, anger flaring up in him. “You head out now, you’re going to make it worse, and you’ll need even more time to recover.” He tries to take a calming breath. “I know you’re bored, and frustrated. But you need more time.”

“I’ll tell you what I need,” Dean throws back, looking between Castiel and Sam. “I need the both of you to quit treating me like a four-year-old with a skinned knee. I’m fine.” He turns to face Castiel fully. “And I’m going to Washington, with or without you.”

Castiel glares at him, then looks at Sam, silently pleading for help. Sam stares at Dean, before heaving a deep sigh. “Okay, well, I guess I can’t stop you –”

“Sam!” Castiel starts, and Dean looks triumphant.

“I’m still calling Shannon and telling her to be on standby. Keep me in the loop about whatever it is you’re dealing with. If it gets to be too much, I’m bringing her in.”

“Fine, awesome,” Dean says. He turns to look back at Castiel. “So, are you coming?”

 

 

 

 

The drive is an uncomfortable one. Dean keeps the volume up on the radio, and limits any conversation to discussions of food and bathroom breaks. They stop for the night in southern Idaho, and are back on the road again by seven the next morning with barely ten words exchanged between them.

They’re about an hour out from Ocean City when Dean breaks the silence.

“Sam have anything else for us about this case?”

Castiel looks at him briefly, then pulls out his phone to skim the news article. “I don’t think so. Ocean City has a population of 206, and there have been twelve residents reported missing in the last two months. The crime rate in the area was minimal before that.”

Dean nods, thinking. “Okay. . . anything about a link between victims? Jobs, ages, anything?”

Castiel shakes his head. “It doesn’t say here. Although I’d imagine with a town this small, we’re bound to find a connection between at least a few of them.”

“Good point,” Dean says. He gestures to Castiel’s phone. “Find us a motel, would ya?”

A few minutes of searching offers exactly one motel in the area. When they pull into the parking lot an hour later, they both stare out the front windshield a few moments.

The building is small, with maybe ten rooms and a little office to the side. The white siding is greyed with age and neglect, the roof seems to be sagging, and there are tree branches and other detritus littering the parking lot. But there is a light on in the office and the Vacancy sign is flickering.

“Yeesh,” Dean says, pulling a face. “I’ve stayed in some sketchy places before, but this is next level bad. You sure this is our only option?”

Castiel grimaces. “I’m afraid so. There are a few tourist hotels, but they’re seasonal, so they’re closed for the year.”

Dean sighs. “Alright then. Bedbug City, here we come.”

They step out of the car, and Castiel instantly shivers at the harsh, biting wind. They’d stopped for gas only a few hours earlier, and it hadn’t felt half as cold. Castiel sees Dean pull his own jacket tightly around himself.

“Fuck, when’d it get so cold?” he asks.

Castiel shakes his head but doesn’t answer, heading for the mildly welcoming light of the office.

It’s not much warmer inside than it was in the parking lot. The desk is manned by a woman in her late sixties, with sallow skin and mousy hair laying flat down her back. There’s an ashtray with what must be a dozen cigarettes sitting beside her on the desk, and there’s another one held limply between her fingers. She doesn’t even glance at them as they step through the door.

“Evening,” Dean smiles at her, and her eyes drift over towards the two of them. “We’re looking for a room. Double.” He puts a credit card on the desk and looks at her expectantly.

“A room?” she repeats. It’s strange; her face is pointed at Dean’s, but she’s not meeting his eyes.

Dean squints at her a little. “Yeah, a room,” he says, his face now a little confused. “You are open, aren’t you?”

She nods vaguely, still not really looking at either of them. “Yes. We’re open. I have a room. It’s a single.”

Dean frowns at her. “You only have one room left? Didn’t look like there was anyone in the parking lot.”

“We’ve had some problems,” she says, rather tonelessly. “Water damage. From rain. Just a single.”

Dean looks a little uncomfortable now, and his eyes glance over to Castiel’s for a moment. “We don’t mind a little rain,” he tries, and Castiel rolls his eyes.

“It’ll be fine,” he cuts in, giving Dean a look.

“Fill this out,” the woman says, pulling a paper from behind the counter. She doesn’t move, her eyes fixed on the wall, and Dean looks between her and Castiel warily before he bends over to fill out the form.

Dean finishes, sliding the paper back over to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Castiel’s about to try to get her attention when he hears a faint hissing sound and glances down at her hand.

The cigarette she’s holding is starting to burn her fingers. It sizzles a little bit, the flesh going red, then white.

He reacts instinctively, reaching out his own hand to swat the cigarette away from her. She doesn’t react at all.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, trying to meet her eyes.

She looks down to the cigarette now smoking on the countertop. Slowly, she picks it up and butts it out in the ashtray. Then she reaches to the row of keys on the wall behind her, picking one out and handing it to Castiel. “Room nine.”

Cautiously, Castiel reaches out a hand to take it, and for one fraction of a second her eyes meet his. They’re dull, lifeless. Empty.

“Are you alright,” he repeats. Beside him, he can feel Dean shifting back and forth on his feet.

“Checkout is 10:00am,” she says, then turns and walks slowly into the back room.

Castiel turns back to Dean, who is squinting after her and frowning deeply.

“The hell was that?” he asks lowly.

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know. But she’s. . . she’s not _right_.”

Dean looks over at him searchingly for a moment, then shakes his own head. “Whatever, man, we’ll figure it out tomorrow. Right now I’m wiped. C’mon.”

Castiel sets aside his feelings of unease for the moment and they walk back out into the parking lot, grabbing their bags from the Impala before heading to their room. It’s the one furthest from the office, and despite the state of the rest of the motel, it’s not as bad as Castiel was expecting.

They move inside, Dean dropping his bag on the little table by the tv and sitting down on a rickety chair. He rubs his temples with his fingers. Castiel sets his own bag down beside the bed and looks over at Dean.

“What is it?” he asks.

Dean glances up at him. “Headache. Think I’m just tired.”

Castiel frowns. “Or it’s the concussion. I shouldn’t have let you drive so much, we could’ve switched off.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s _fine_ , Cas.”

Castiel purses his lips. “Alright, _fine_ ,” he says. His eyes shift uncomfortably to the one bed. “I’ll take the floor,” he says awkwardly.

Dean looks over at the bed and swallows. “No, man, don’t be stupid, I’m not making you sleep on the floor,” he mumbles.

“I don’t want to risk exacerbating your injuries,” Castiel says, and he walks over to the closet by the bathroom in search of extra blankets. Predictably, there are none.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean sighs, fishing around in his duffel and pulling out sweat pants and a t-shirt. “You’re not sleeping on the floor. We’ll deal.” He heads into the bathroom to change.

Castiel feels a strange sort of panic start to rise in his chest. He pulls on sleep clothes himself, quickly, and slides into the bed on one side, drawing the covers up to his chin and lying flat on his back. He stares at the ceiling.

Dean steps out of the bathroom and looks down at Castiel in the bed. His lips quirk a little. “Comfy?” he asks.

“Not really,” Castiel says truthfully. The mattress is lumpy and despite the blankets, he’s cold. Add to that the nervous pounding of his heart and Castiel is certain he’s in for a very long night.

Dean turns out the light switch and hesitantly crawls into the other side of the bed. He leaves a good foot of space between them, turning onto his side and facing the opposite wall.

“Night,” he says.

“Night,” Castiel replies. He takes a deep, slow breath and waits for sleep he’s certain won’t come.

 

 

 

 

Castiel jolts awake, breathing hard. He raises a hand to where a cold sweat has broken out across his forehead and pushes it up through his hair. After a long moment spent trying to calm his racing heart, he glances at the clock on the bedside table. It’s just after 4:00am; at least he’d managed a few hours tonight.

There’s a rustling of covers beside him, and Castiel looks down. In his sleep, Dean has rolled over, and his face is angled towards Castiel’s side of the bed, his arms reaching out across the distance between them.

Knowing he has a moment where he won’t be caught, Castiel watches him for a while. Dean looks peaceful in sleep; the lines on his forehead are smoothed out and his face his relaxed. Castiel smiles at him softly, before sighing and carefully moving out from under the blankets. He pulls out a change of clothes and slips into the shower, revelling in the warm water.

He’s working on the laptop when Dean finally stirs at 6:45. Dean sits up gingerly, frowning around the room until his eyes find Castiel at the table.

“What’re you doing?” he mumbles, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“I’m looking at the history of the area, trying to find something to account for the disappearances. There’s nothing so far,” Castiel says, eyes meeting Dean’s briefly. “The sheriff’s station opens at 8:30am, I think we should find breakfast and head there first.”

Dean nods blearily. “How long you been working?”

“Not long,” Castiel answers vaguely. “I’m ready to go when you are.”

Dean yawns, flinging back the covers. “Yeah, yeah. Lemme shower.”

He’s out and dressed twenty minutes later, but on seeing his slightly hobbled walk, Castiel insists on checking his injured side before they leave.

“I’m fine, Cas, it’s just that stupid lumpy mattress,” he complains, but he sits down and lifts his shirt obligingly. “See? Good as new.”

Castiel flicks his eyes between Dean’s face and the puffy and scabbed flesh on his ribs. “You have a very strange definition of ‘fine,’” he says dryly. The skin of Dean’s chest and side is still bruised, now turned a sickly yellow and green. Castiel presses his fingers lightly into the flesh of his middle and watches Dean’s face. “Does that hurt?”

Dean shifts a little, uncomfortably. He swallows and looks over at Castiel beside him on the bed. “No, it’s fine.”

Castiel moves his fingers a little higher. “There?”

Dean closes his eyes and looks away. “Nope, I’m good. We done yet?” Not waiting for an answer, he leans away from Castiel and pulls his shirt back down.

Castiel sighs. “I suppose so.”

“Great. Now, let’s go find us some coffee.”

The morning is grey and cold; there’s a wind blowing in off the ocean that seems to cut like a knife through Castiel’s suit and overcoat. They find a little storefront diner on what counts for Ocean City’s main street and duck inside.

The restaurant is reasonably crowded, but subdued. A few customers glance up at the door when Castiel and Dean enter, but most seem focused on their plates, slowly lifting forks to their mouths.

A waitress sees them from across the room. She walks to the door and stands in front of them, arms crossed. “Can I help you gentlemen?” she asks with narrow eyes.

Dean is frowning and rubbing a hand at his head again, so Castiel steps forward a little. “We’d like a table, please, and two coffees,” he says.

The waitress frowns, looking down at their suits. “You’re not from here. You’ve missed tourist season,” she says snidely.

Castiel looks at Dean, confused by their reception. “We’d just like a table, please,” Castiel repeats firmly.

The waitress glares at him, then jabs one painted fingernail at a table near the centre of the room. She doesn’t speak any further, just stalks off to the kitchen.

They sit down, shrugging out of their coats, and Dean leans in across the table. “Okay, what is _up_ with this town? First the lady at the motel, now Doris here with her panties in a twist.”

Castiel looks around the room, taking in the vacant looks of the customers. “It’s not just them though. This whole town, it feels. . . off, somehow.” He looks back at Dean. “It’s strange, I can’t quite describe it.”

Dean shakes his head. “I get it, man, it’s not just you. Something’s really weird.” He stops, hands going back to his temples.

Castiel frowns. “Your head again?”

Dean nods, closing his eyes. “Yeah, damn, I should’ve taken another couple pain pills. And before you say anything, it’s not the concussion, I’m telling you. This just started when we got here last night.”

Castiel glances back around the diner. “Maybe whatever’s affecting this town is affecting you as well.”

“Maybe,” Dean concedes.

The waitress returns then, carrying a tray. She sets two mugs of coffee down on the table. “Breakfast?” she asks curtly, not looking at either of them.

Castiel and Dean share a glance across the table.

“I’ll have eggs, scrambled, side of bacon,” Dean says.

She nods once, and turns to Castiel.

“Pancakes, please, and bacon as well,” he says.

She turns and leaves without a word.

Dean turns to Castiel with a grimace. “How much you wanna bet we’re getting extra helpings of spit with our food today?”

They wait for their meals in silence, glancing around the room at their fellow customers. Some are casting wary eyes around the diner, shifting uneasily in their seats and speaking quietly amongst themselves. Others have the same dead-eyed look as the motel clerk last night, ignoring the restaurant at large as they mechanically eat their food. There’s an older man in a booth by himself, and Castiel is watching him slowly raise his coffee to his mouth when he abruptly pauses. The man frowns a little and sets his cup back down, then turns his head to stare directly at Castiel.

Unnerved, Castiel looks back at Dean, just as the waitress returns and drops their plates down in front of them with a slight clatter.

She’s already heading back to the kitchen, but after a step she pauses and turns back around. “You’re cops?”

Dean tries a smile. “We that obvious?”

She ignores him. “You might as well head on back to wherever the hell you came from. You’re not going to find them.”

The tension in the room seems to ratchet up a notch. Across the table, Dean stills, his hand pausing with his forkful of eggs halfway to his lips.

“What makes you say that?” he asks.

The waitress narrows her eyes again. “Because you’re not. They’re gone, best accept it. I did.”

Castiel studies her face. “Do you know one of them? One of the people missing?” She turns to him and glares, but he continues. “We’re here to help. Please, if you know anything, tell us and we’ll do what we can to bring them all home.”

It’s then that Castiel notices the entire diner has gone silent. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean’s hand drift down below the table, close to where his gun is tucked into the back of his pants.

The waitress leans down a little, face drawing nearly level with Castiel’s. “I said, they’re gone. I suggest you two finish your breakfast and leave.”

She walks away, and after a moment the quiet murmuring of the restaurant resumes. Dean looks across the table at Castiel, then starts to pile food into his mouth.

“She’s right about that last part. C’mon, let’s eat and get out of here, this place gives me the creeps.”

They finish quickly and Dean drops some money on the table. They’re almost out the door when Castiel remembers the old man from before. He turns back to look, but the booth is empty.

 

 

 

 

It’s started to drizzle slightly by the time they reach the little sheriff’s station, and the wind’s picked up so much that Dean has to work hard to pull the front door closed behind them. Inside there are only a few officers, each one sitting at their desk silently. No one rises to greet them; in fact no one seems to notice their entrance at all. In the back corner is a little partitioned office with ‘Sheriff T. Redhorne’ on the door, so Dean shrugs at Castiel and leads the way over. He knocks once, then pushes the door open when there’s no response.

The sheriff is sitting at his desk, staring vacantly ahead. He’s in his mid-forties, with olive skin and his long, dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. The tabletop is strewn with stacks of papers and files, and his computer is switched off. Castiel exchanges a look with Dean and approaches him cautiously.

“Sheriff Redhorne?” he asks. The man’s eyes drift upwards a little, but just like the motel clerk they don’t seem to meet Castiel’s. “I’m Agent Panozzo, this is my partner Agent DeYoung.” They both pull out their IDs, but Redhorne doesn’t even glance at them. “We’re here about your missing persons case.”

“Missing. . .,” Redhorne says, brow furrowing. “Yes, there are some people missing.”

Dean steps forward. “Yes, Sheriff. We’d like to look at your files. What do you have so far?” Dean is squinting at him, hard, but then he closes his eyes and takes a step back. His hand goes up to his temple again.

Castiel sends him a questioning look, but Dean shakes his head as if to say ‘not now.’ Castiel purses his lips, but turns back to the sheriff.

“Can you tell us what you have so far, Sheriff?” Castiel presses.

Redhorne stands then, slowly, and walks out of his office without a word. Castiel and Dean share a bewildered look before following him. Outside, the sheriff has stopped at the desk of a deputy, who is typing on his computer without glancing once at his monitor. Redhorne pulls a heavy brown file box from the top of the officer’s desk.

“The missing persons. . . there’s twelve of them. We don’t know where they are.” He holds out the box to Castiel, who takes it from him carefully.

“Well, yeah,” Dean says. “That’d be why they call them ‘missing persons.’”

The sheriff looks at him blankly. “Excuse me, I have to return to work now,” he says, and wanders back to his office.

Castiel is about to suggest they find an empty desk to work at, but Dean nudges his shoulder and jerks his head to the door. They step outside and huddle under the awning; the wind has picked up again and the rain is now blowing almost completely sideways.

“’Kay, not that the motel’s all that warm and cozy, but I vote we hole up in there to work this. Something about these people makes it feel like my brain’s on fire.”

Castiel nods in agreement. “Alright, but I’m driving back over there,” he says, and to his surprise Dean hands over the keys immediately.

“Yeah, good, fine, let’s just get going. Sooner we figure this out the sooner we can get out of here.”

 

 

 

 

The police reports are well kept, despite the strange state of the officers, but after a few hours of searching Dean and Castiel can find no discernible link between any of the missing. With little else to go on, they decide to start their interviews with the family of the most recent victim, Derek Peeters.

Unfortunately, Chris and Linda Peeters seem to be afflicted with the same sort of emptiness that is affecting half the town’s population.

“Now, Mrs. Peeters,” Dean says from his spot on the couch. “The reports say your son was due home from his shift at the hardware store at about 7:15pm last Thursday. His manager confirms he left the store at just after 7:00, but Derek didn’t make it home. Do you have any idea where he could have gone instead? Did he have friends around here, maybe a girlfriend he wanted to visit?”

Mrs. Peeters’ eyes drift about the room. “Derek was supposed to be home at 7:15. We don’t know where he is.”

Dean heaves a frustrated sigh. “Okay then, _Mr_. Peeters, can you think of anywhere he might go? Or maybe someone who wanted to cause him harm?”

Chris Peeters looks at the wall over Castiel’s head and doesn’t say anything.

Dean looks ready to throw something, so Castiel steps in. “Had you noticed Derek behaving strangely at all in the weeks before he disappeared? Staying out late, acting out at home?”

Chris and Linda just continue their blank staring.

“Your son is _missing_ ,” Dean growls at them. “Do you even _care_?”

“They don’t.”

Dean and Castiel spin around in their seats. There’s a teenage girl standing at the foot of the hall stairs, and unlike Mr. and Mrs. Peeters, she’s looking the two of them in the eye. She waits in the hall while Dean and Castiel rise from their seats and join her.

“I’m Jasmine, I’m Derek’s sister, and I don’t know why, but they don’t care,” she says, looking fearfully at her parents.

Dean glances at Castiel briefly. “Okay, Jasmine, maybe you can help us then,” he says gently. “Do you know anything about what happened to your brother? Anything that could help us?”

Jasmine shakes her head, wide-eyed. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice anything weird about him before he went missing, and I can’t think of where he might go. But there’s something wrong with the whole town, and that started before he disappeared.”

Castiel nods at her. “We’ve noticed. Do you know when it started? People behaving strangely?”

“I, I’m not sure,” she starts. “It was around the time Mrs. Lacey disappeared, I think.”

“She was the first one reported missing, right?” Dean asks.

Jasmine nods. “I don’t know if the people started acting weird before or after that, but that’s when I started to notice. People are just. . . _different_. It’s like they get their personalities sucked out of them. They still walk around and go to work and school and stuff, but it’s like they’re zombies or something. People I’ve known my whole life, my best friend my- my parents.” She looks at her feet and takes a shuddering breath in. When she looks up again, her eyes are swimming. “I don’t know what this is, if it’s some weird disease or what. I just want my family back.”

Dean bends down to look her in the eye. “We’re gonna do everything we can, okay? We’re gonna find them. You got my word on that.” He smiles at her, and she returns a watery one of her own. He pulls a card out of his coat pocket. “Here. If you think of anything else, or if you need us at all, give us a call. We’ll be there.”

They duck out into the cold and driving rain and hurry back into the car.

“Damn,” Dean says once they’re safely inside. “Poor kid. Only sane person in a town off its rocker.”

Castiel nods. “What she said, about people losing their personalities,” he says thoughtfully.

Dean looks across the bench at him. “You thinking soul-sucking?”

“Maybe,” he muses. “When I looked at the woman at the motel last night, she seemed, well, _empty_. I don’t know what else it could be.”

“I dunno, Cas,” Dean says. “When we’ve run into soulless people before, they haven’t been like this. Think about Sammy. Losing your soul is more like losing your conscience than your personality.”

“True,” Castiel agrees. “And it wouldn’t exactly explain the missing people. Or your headaches.” He turns to Dean, studying him. “How are you feeling right now, by the way?”

Dean tilts his head consideringly. “I’m okay, actually. Whatever it is, it kinda went away when we were talking to Jasmine.” He pauses. “It’s weird; all the ‘empty’ people in this town, looking at them is like trying to read Greek or something. It’s like I have to concentrate really hard to even see them. And when I do, it hurts like a bitch.”

Castiel frowns. “Maybe we should call Sam, get him to send in that hunter from Portland.”

Dean turns to him then, annoyed. “I can handle a headache, Cas, I’m not tapping out so some other hunter can swoop in. We’ve got this.” He starts the car and pulls away from the house, heading back into town. “Now, I say we split up, talk to a few more families.”

“Dean –”

“I’m telling you, Cas, drop it. Here.” He nudges the box of files between them on the bench. “I’ll drop you off at the house of victim #4, then after you can walk over to victim #8 – they live on the same street. I’ll start with Andrea Lacey’s husband; if she was the first one to go missing maybe there’s something about her that started it. We’ll meet back at the motel later.”

Castiel glares out the front window. “Fine. But be careful.”

“When am I not?” Dean asks, and Castiel rolls his eyes.

 

 

 

 

The rain has slackened off somewhat by the time Castiel is finished with his third round of fruitless interviews, but the wind has kept up, blowing cold, salty air in off the ocean. He pulls the lapels up higher on his coat and starts off down the street. He’s wondering whether he’s better off calling Dean for a ride or trying to walk back to the motel himself when he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It’s a very human sensation, one of many he’s still adjusting to, but he instantly recognizes the adrenaline that starts to course through him.

He’s being watched.

Castiel steps off the sidewalk slightly to stand in the shelter of a wind-blown tree and pulls out his phone. Under the pretense of holding it up to get a signal, he casts his eyes around the street.

Standing almost a block down on the opposite side of the road is the same man from the diner this morning. He’s wearing a long, dark coat that contrasts sharply with his grey hair, and his eyes are fixed unerringly on Castiel.

An involuntary shiver runs down Castiel’s spine, one that has nothing to do with the harsh sea air. Swallowing his nerves, Castiel weighs his options. Really, he should wait for Dean to confront the stranger. But looking at him now, Castiel is struck by an inexplicable sense of familiarity. He wracks his human brain, trying to summon the information that once would have come to him instantly.

When no answers seem forthcoming, he toys with the phone in his hand. He should call Dean. But every instinct he has says that this man has something to do with what’s happening in the town, and Castiel knows he may not get another chance at this.

He’s about to start moving across the road when his phone buzzes with a text. Startled, Castiel glances down to read the message from Dean.

**nothing from vic #5’s wife either. gonna check #6 then i’ll head back to the motel**

**bringing food**

Not bothering to reply, Castiel looks back up across the road. The man is gone.

 

 

 

 

Castiel manages to beat Dean back to the motel. He’s huddled at the table trying to get warm when Dean comes in with takeout pizza. He doesn’t say anything, just drops the box in front of Castiel and then flops on his back on the bed, eyes squeezed shut and hands at his forehead.

Castiel fishes through the duffel at his feet until he finds the bottle of aspirin, then stands and walks over to the bed. He rattles it a little and Dean cracks an eye.

“Thanks, Cas,” he says quietly, leaning up to take the bottle. He pours several pills out into his hand and swallows them dry, before laying back down. “I got bupkis. Folks are either freaked out and useless, or they’re wastoids and useless. You?”

“I might have something,” he says, and Dean opens his eyes again. “My interviews were unproductive, but I think I’ve seen someone in town who might be involved.”

Dean frowns at him. “What d’you mean?”

“This morning at the diner, there was a man in a booth across from us. He seemed different from the others somehow. He looked at me strangely,” Castiel says.

Dean chuckles. “Cas if we had a nickel for every time somebody looked at you strangely, I could afford to put diamond-studded rims on Baby. Not that I would. . .” He pulls a vaguely nauseated face.

Castiel shakes his head. “It was more than that. I can’t explain it, but I got a, I don’t know, a bad feeling from him. And I saw him again, about an hour ago. I think he was following me.”

Dean sits up. “What’d this guy look like?”

Castiel thinks a moment. “Older, maybe seventy years old? Grey hair, average height. He was sitting in a booth by himself this morning, just across the aisle from us.”

Dean frowns. “I didn’t notice him, I guess. You said he was following you?”

Castiel nods. “I tried to go after him, but I looked away for a moment and when I turned back he had gone.”

Dean stands then. “Some guy gives you a ‘bad feeling’ in a town full of crazies, and you decide you’re going to go after him? Alone?” he asks angrily.

Castiel feels his defenses shoot up and he scowls back at Dean. “I’m not a child, Dean. You know I can handle myself.”

“That’s not the point, Cas, you should’ve called me.”

“For what?” he asks sardonically. “For you to come with me just to keel over with a migraine?”

“Will you quit babying me, damnit!” Dean’s yelling now, his hands in fists at his sides. “When the hell’d you get the idea I need my damn hand held all the time, huh?”

Castiel opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it again almost instantly. He closes his eyes, breathing hard through his nose.

“I’m taking a shower,” he says, then bends down to grab his duffel and stalks off to the bathroom.

“We’re not done, Cas!” Dean starts, but Castiel slams the door in his face.

“Fine!” Dean shouts, banging a fist on the closed door.

Castiel, seething, turns the shower’s dial to hot and strips out of his clothes, then steps into the tub. For a long while he just stands there, trying to get warm.

He has to be more careful. He’d almost said it out loud, right there.

It’s getting harder for him to ignore his feelings for Dean. Outbursts like this were becoming more common since the Hellhound attack, rising up on a hair trigger. He needs to get himself back under control.

He finishes in the shower and changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt. His toes are cold on the linoleum floor.

When Castiel steps back out into the main room, Dean is already changed and lying in the bed, still awake. “You get over your little temper tantrum yet?” he asks scathingly.

Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he heads back into the bathroom and retrieves a clean towel from the rack, then walks to the bed and grabs his pillow. He drops it on the ground by the table and lies down, covering himself as best he can with the threadbare towel.

“Oh _that’s_ mature,” Dean snorts. “Don’t be stupid, get back up here.”

Castiel ignores him. This is better. Safer.

“Fine, stay down there. See if I care.” He turns out the light, and Castiel is left to fume in the darkness.

 

 

 

 

Predictably, Castiel can’t fall asleep. He has enough trouble on a normal night, but the motel floor is hard and cold, and one bath towel and thin pillow are not enough to keep violent shivers from wracking his body. He curls in on himself a little tighter, his teeth chattering. He knows he’s being ridiculous; he should climb up into the bed and try to squeeze in a few hours of sleep. Chances are he’d be awake again before Dean anyway. He could move back down to the floor in the early hours of the morning and Dean would be none the wiser.

He’s weighing the risks and benefits of this plan when there’s a rustling of blankets and sheets on the bed, followed by the soft padding of socked feet. Castiel closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep.

“Cas. Cas,” Dean whispers. Castiel can feel Dean bending down behind him but keeps still. “Damnit Cas, it’s freezing in here. Get back up in the bed.”

Castiel stays silent and hopes Dean will give up.

Instead, Dean places a warm hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re awake, man. Now get up and get in the bed, or I will pick you up and drag you. And then you’ll be all pissed at me for straining my busted ribs.”

Castiel sighs, loudly and pointedly, but concedes defeat. He rolls over and glares at Dean, but it’s half-hearted. He’s too tired to fight.

“There y’are,” Dean smiles a little. “Now c’mon, you dummy, before you get hypothermia and I’m the one nagging _your_ stubborn ass.” He walks back over to the bed and crawls into the covers.

Castiel picks up his pillow and slides into the other side. The bed is body-warm and Castiel resists the urge to lean into Dean’s space to soak it in. “So you admit you’re being stubborn,” he says instead.

Dean sighs and drops a hand over his eyes. “Yeah, okay, maybe a little. You know I have a hard time with this crap, Cas. I just hate being coddled, man. I can’t handle it.”

“I’m not trying to _coddle_ you, Dean.” Castiel sighs and closes his eyes. “Don’t you get that I’m just worried?” he asks quietly.

Through his closed eyelids, Castiel feels Dean turn his head to face him.

“Yeah, man, I get it. Guess I’m just not used to it.”

Castiel huffs disbelievingly. “You’re not used to people worrying about you? I don’t think you’ve been paying attention.”

Dean’s silent for a moment. “No, I guess not,” he says softly.

Castiel huffs again, then turns onto his side and pulls the blankets further up around his shoulders, still trying to get warm. Suddenly he feels a hand close gently on his shoulder, and his eyes fly open. There’s a moment of stillness, then Dean starts to slowly pull him closer to the centre of the bed.

“Dean? What are you doing?” he asks warily.

“Shut up. You’re freezing. Just. . . just let me.” Dean’s arm snakes under Castiel’s and wraps across the front of his chest. His long, hard body presses up tentatively against Castiel’s back.

Castiel’s heart is thumping madly in his chest and he’s sure Dean can feel it in the hand draped across his front. He wriggles a little, trying to inch away, but Dean presses harder into his ribs.

“Dean, I’m not –”

“Cas, shut up. Sleep.”

Castiel closes his eyes again. Sleep is probably off the table at this point, but he’s selfish, and he’ll take whatever small comfort Dean will give him. He focuses on Dean’s breath on the back of his neck, on the scent of him in the sheets, and on the firm weight of Dean’s body pressed against his own. Slowly, his breathing evens out, but his heart keeps pounding.

 

 

 

 

“Cas. _Cas_.”

He hears his urgently whispered name through the heavy fog of sleep, but doesn’t move other than to curl into himself a little tighter. Castiel had slept – quite deeply it seems – for the first time in weeks; he is warm and impossibly comfortable, and if only Dean would stop being so annoying he’s certain he could fall right back to sleep.

Dean.

Castiel tenses immediately, awareness hitting him in one abrupt jolt. His eyes fly open and he discovers with some horror that he’s clinging tightly to Dean, who is lying stiffly on his back. Castiel has his nose pressed to Dean’s neck and one arm extended across his chest, gripping his t-shirt. Castiel’s even managed to tangle their legs together.

He’s also hard.

Mortified, he leans back to find Dean staring at him, wide-eyed and rather red in the face.

“S-sorry,” he stutters, feeling his own cheeks burning. He releases his grip on Dean’s shirt and pulls his legs back to his own side of the bed. His hips had been tilted away from Dean’s side, and he’s hoping desperately Dean hasn’t noticed his current state of arousal.

“Yeah, um, it’s fine,” Dean says, a little breathlessly, and sits up. “I mean, not fine, but you know – whatever.” His eyes have taken on a hunted look. “I just, um. Need to get up. I’m gonna. . .” he’s out of the bed in a heartbeat, grabbing his duffel and walking quickly, if a little stiffly, to the bathroom. The door closes firmly behind him and Castiel hears the shower start up a moment later.

Castiel exhales a long and shaky breath, then drops his hands over his face. The ice around the two of them had finally started to melt a little, and now Castiel has ruined it by failing to control his base, human impulses.

This has happened to him before. More often than not he’ll simply ignore the. . . _problem_ until it goes away, but on occasion he has indulged himself. In his room at the bunker, or in the shower when they’re on the road, he’ll take hold of himself and imagine Dean is with him; touching him, _tasting_ him. . . but this is not the time for that. It’s far too dangerous, with Dean on the other side of thin motel walls and most likely well aware of Castiel’s situation.

When Dean gets out of the shower Castiel will simply have to apologize and hope they can forget about this and move on. He gets out of the bed, ignoring his straining erection and forcing himself to think of other things.

He’s dressed and dithering about the motel room when Dean emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed and smelling of toothpaste. Castiel opens his mouth to apologize but Dean starts up before he can.

“I say we try that little donut shop off the highway for breakfast; I don’t think it’d be a good idea to head back to the diner again,” he says. His tone is all business, but it’s not unfriendly.

Castiel blinks, but follows Dean’s lead. Pretending it never happened is probably the best idea anyway.

“Oh, I forgot to say, I found out why our waitress was so hostile yesterday,” he says with a grimace.

Dean looks momentarily relieved. “Oh?”

Castiel nods. “I discovered during my interviews that her father is one of the missing. He disappeared almost six weeks ago.”

Dean shakes his head, sitting on the bed to pull his shoes on. “You’d think she’d be happy to see a couple feds catch the case, instead of trying to run us out of town.”

“Maybe, but people don’t always behave rationally when they are faced with the loss of a loved one.”

Dean glances up at him, eyes a little wary, and Castiel clears his throat and turns away, starting to pile their mess of case files back into the box.

“What’s our plan for the day?” he asks. “We still have a few families we haven’t talked to, but I don’t see much point. I’d imagine they’re all going to tell the same story.”

Dean stands, nodding. “Probably. This is weird, man. All these different people; different ages, ethnicities, genders, all taken somehow when they were alone, no witnesses. We’ve checked around town for EMF, sulfur.” He frowns, pulling on his coat. “There’s always _something_ , but so far all we’ve got is your mystery man, who may or may not be involved in some unknown way.”

Castiel grabs his own overcoat. “Why don’t we try going over the last places our victims were seen? I know it’s not much, but as you said, we don’t have a lot to go on.”

“Yeah, alright. But we’re sticking together today, in case we do run into creepy geezer guy,” he says as he heads out the door. He’s two steps outside before he turns back around. “Hang on –”

Castiel smiles and throws him the bottle of aspirin. Dean catches it smartly in one hand, then smiles back.

“Thanks, Cas.”

 

 

 

 

“There’s nothing here, Dean.”

They’re on the side of the road, halfway between the fishing docks and the Green Lantern Pub at the north end of town. Mick Charles had driven this route after he had closed up his bait-and-tackle three weeks earlier. His car had been found the next morning, engine off, keys gone.

The area is void of any and all clues, just as it had been in the other half dozen places Dean and Castiel had checked that morning. It’s pushing 3:00pm now, and Castiel is hungry and again chilled to the bone. The rain has held off today, but he thinks that’s only because it’s going to start snowing instead.

Dean climbs out of the little ditch by the side of the road and aims a frustrated kick at a rock sitting on the gravel shoulder. It skitters across the pavement, dinging a tree on the opposite side of the street.

“Fine, let’s get outta here, head back down the main drag.” He fists his hands into his pockets and they head to the car to drive back into town.

There’s a little fish-and-chips shack on the beachfront road that had piqued Dean’s interest earlier. The smell of salt and oil is heavy in the air, and they take their paper-wrapped meals from the anxious man in the booth, eating them quickly at a nearby picnic table. They’re heading back down the boardwalk towards the car when Dean stops abruptly, eyes on the walkway ahead of them.

“Jeez, look at them all.”

Castiel follows his gaze. The beach is fairly busy, despite the weather and the lateness of the season, and there’s a large group of teenagers coming towards them. There’s a few clustered together, away from the others and looking nervously around the beach. The rest are vacant, walking dully down the boardwalk.

“School must have just let out,” Castiel says, and he turns back around to find Dean doubled over, his hands pressing into his temples and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Dean!”

“God _damn_ it,” Dean grits out, flinging out a hand blindly. Castiel catches it in his own and leads him backwards to sit on a bench off the boardwalk.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dean swears, trying to catch his breath. “I can’t – I can’t look at them.”

“Keep your eyes shut,” Castiel says, kneeling down at Dean’s feet.

Through his pain, Dean lets out a snort. “Yeah, thanks Cas. Good advice there.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. After a moment he looks back up the boardwalk, where only a few children remain.

“You can open them again. Just focus on me,” he says.

Dean keeps his hands to his forehead but cracks his eyes open, zeroing in on Castiel instantly. He takes a steadying breath.

“What the hell is this, Cas?” He frowns a little. “And why isn’t it affecting you?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Former-angel thing, maybe?”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I’m human now. I don’t think there’s –” he trails off when he recognizes a figure approaching.

Jasmine Peeters is walking down the boardwalk. Castiel rises to greet her, but Dean grabs his arm.

“Oh no,” he says softly.

Castiel glances back down to see Dean looking at Jasmine with a pained expression.

“She’s. . .?”

Dean nods. “Damn it.” He stands, and they approach the girl together. She stops just shy of running into them.

“Hello, Jasmine. Do you remember us?” Castiel starts. “We met yesterday, at your house.”

Jasmine’s eyes drift up slightly. “Hello. I have to go home now. School’s over for today.”

Castiel glances at Dean, who just looks back at him sadly.

“Okay, that’s a good idea,” Castiel tries to smile at her a little. “You should go home, but first, can you tell us what you did last night? And this morning?”

Her eyes slide out to look at the shoreline. “Last night. . .”

“Yes, last night. Did you talk to anyone, go anywhere?”

She turns back so she’s facing straight ahead, her eyes still unfocused. “I have to go home,” she repeats.

“Jasmine, listen to me,” Dean says firmly. “We’re gonna help you. We’re here to stop whatever’s doing this to your town, and to find your brother. But we need you to remember.”

“. . . My brother?” she asks. She doesn’t look at him, but her brow furrows a little.

“Yes!” Dean smiles a little, relieved. “Your brother. Derek. You remember him?”

“Derek. . .” she pauses. “Derek is special.”

“What do you mean ‘special?’” Castiel asks. “Who told you that?”

“The man,” she says. “The old man. He told me last night.”

Castiel looks at Dean, who purses his lips.

“What else did the man say, Jasmine?” Dean asks.

“He said that sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t.” She stops there, and starts to walk forward. Castiel steps back out of her way. “I have to go home now,” she says again.

“Jasmine, hold on,” Dean starts, reaching out a hand to grab her arm, but Castiel throws up his own to stop him, and she keeps walking down the path away from them.

“Let her go, Dean. We can’t do anything else for her until we figure out who, or _what_ we’re dealing with.”

Dean looks like he wants to argue, but he lets her go. He turns back to Castiel and frowns. “So it’s your mystery man. Definitely.”

Castiel nods. “It would seem so. And whatever he’s doing, he needs these people for something.”

“But only some of them,” Dean says. “Only the ones that are ‘special,’ whatever that means.” He looks back across the beach at Jasmine’s retreating form.

“We’ll fix her,” Castiel says resolutely. “Whatever he did to her, to all of them, we’ll figure it out and we’ll fix it.”

Dean turns back and meets his eyes. After a moment, Dean nods.

“Yeah.”

Castiel offers a small smile and together they start walking back up to the car.

“So what now?” Dean asks as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “We just wait around for Geezer Man to show up again?”

“Unless you have a better idea,” Castiel says, eyebrows raised.

“Not really.”

Castiel nods grimly. “Then we wait.”

 

 

 

 

They search the town for the next few hours, checking first the diner and then patrolling the neighbourhood where Castiel saw the old man yesterday. Neither Dean nor Castiel are surprised when they find no hint of the man in either location. They even stop a few of the town’s still-functioning residents, Castiel describing the man as best he can, but he seems unfamiliar to everyone they ask.

They’re parked down at the beach again, pondering their next move, when Castiel finally spots him down at the shoreline. The sun has set and the it’s almost completely dark, but the man’s outline is distinctive against the dim expanse of sea and sky.

“There,” Castiel says, nodding down to the water. “That’s him.”

Dean turns his head to follow Castiel’s gaze, but then he frowns. “Where?”

Castiel raises his finger, pointing to the shoreline. “There, that man down by the water. He wasn’t there a moment ago.”

Dean squints, his eyes scanning up and down the beach. “I don’t see anybody, Cas. Beach is empty.”

Castiel looks at Dean, then back down to the shore. The man hasn’t moved, but his long coat flaps a little in the wind.

Dean turns to look at him, confused.

“Why can’t you see him?” Castiel asks.

“Why can _you_?” Dean shoots back.

Castiel frowns. “Maybe for the same reason you’re getting headaches, and I’m not.”

“Angel thing?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know. There’s no grace left in me.” He frowns again. “But I’m telling you, the man we’re looking for is right down there, a hundred feet away.” He looks back up at the old man. “A little more than a hundred now; he’s leaving.”

Dean turns to the beach, eyes moving uselessly back and forth. “Where? Where’s he going?”

“North,” Castiel says. “He’s walking north along the shoreline.”

“Okay then, we follow him. With any luck, he’ll lead us to all our kidnapping vics.” Dean cracks his car door quietly and starts to climb out.

“Unless,” Castiel throws a hand across to stop him, his eyes still on the old man. “This is probably a trap, Dean. He looked right at me in the diner, and he was following me yesterday. Now he appears right in front of us, and a moment later he starts wandering down a dark beach. He wants us to follow him.”

“Well yeah, Cas.” Dean turns bodily to face him. “It’s almost definitely a trap. But what else are we gonna do? Whatever he is, he’s kidnapped a dozen people and fucked up the brains of like a hundred more. We gear up with everything useful we can carry, and we go after him.”

Knowing they don’t have any better options, Castiel nods.

“Good,” Dean says, and gets out of the car. “You keep your eyes on him, I’ll follow your lead.”

He walks to the trunk to start fishing out weapons, and Castiel moves to stand beside him. The darkness has deepened the piercing cold, and Castiel shivers and zips up his jacket to the chin. Dean loads his Colt with silver bullets, tucks the demon knife into the side of his jeans, and slips containers of salt and holy water into his jacket. Keeping his eyes on the shore, Castiel holds out his hand. Dean gives him his angel blade, plus a knife made from iron and the Beretta pistol Castiel has been favouring.

Dean closes the trunk quietly, and Castiel leads the way down the beach. They stay off the boardwalk, keeping to the sand to muffle their footsteps. The old man doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, which only adds to Castiel’s disquiet. They walk for ten minutes before the sandy beach ends and turns into tall grasses and cragged rocks. The old man doesn’t slow his pace, picking his way down a winding path through the brush. Castiel turns back to Dean, who nods, and they follow.

They walk through the scrub for a long while, drifting further out from the shoreline. They keep a safe distance from their quarry, who is seemingly unperturbed by the cold wind whipping sharply at Castiel’s cheeks and bare fingers.

After nearly an hour, a grove of trees appears on the horizon and the path turns sharply inland. In the dim light Castiel can make out an old, weather-beaten beach house set back against the treeline. He stops, holding a hand back to Dean as warning. Dean creeps up to stand beside him, and Castiel watches the man enter the house.

“He’s in there?” Dean asks lowly.

Castiel nods.

“Great. It’s freezing, we’re at least three miles from civilization, and our creepy and occasionally invisible bad guy just led us to his murder cabin in the woods.”

“On the bright side, it might be a little warmer in there,” Castiel says, tilting his head to the shack.

“That’s it, Cas. Keep things optimistic. That’s good.” Dean pulls his gun and starts making his way slowly through the brush towards the house.

“Dean, just out of curiosity, how is it you plan on fighting something you can’t see?” Castiel asks, keeping low and drawing his angel blade from his jeans.

“You point, I shoot.”

Castiel shakes his head. “This is a bad idea,” he whispers, stepping a foot cautiously on the rotting wooden steps.

“A Winchester classic,” Dean whispers back, winking. He walks across the porch to the front door, placing a hand on the doorknob. He looks back at Castiel, who nods.

Dean pulls the door open with one hand and holds his gun high in the other, but there’s no reaction but the faint creak of the hinges. Dean leans inside a little, then jerks his head for Castiel to follow. It’s dark inside, and Castiel blinks his eyes rapidly to try to adjust. The cabin has one large room at the front, with a couch and coffee table in one corner and a little cot in the other. Through an archway at the back Castiel can see a small kitchen, and a door that presumably leads to a bathroom.

There’s no indication of the old man anywhere.

They move through the room slowly, weapons raised. Castiel heads to the kitchen and peers cautiously behind the bathroom door. Dean checks the front corner by the cot, then he turns to Castiel and raises his eyebrows in a question. Castiel shakes his head, then spots another door off the kitchen he hadn’t noticed before. He waves Dean over silently.

He’s extending his hand to the doorknob when he hears a murmured voice issuing from below their feet. In the next instant, Dean is pushing him up against the peeled wallpaper, leaning in close with his whole body. Castiel, startled, looks at Dean to find him staring at the door intently, his head cocked as he listens. The voice is low and steady, rhythmic almost, and Castiel instantly identifies the chanting of a spell.

Castiel’s concentration is split, however, by the total sensory overload of Dean pressed warm and solid against him. Dean’s left hand is braced on the wall beside Castiel’s shoulder and his right keeps his gun pointed at the door. But Castiel’s eyes travel unbidden to Dean’s mouth, scant inches from his own. His heart is racing.

Dean turns his head to speak, and Castiel skips his eyes up to Dean’s a second too slow. Dean tracks the movement and his mouth closes abruptly. He stares.

They’re still and silent for a long moment, eyes locked in on each other, both breathing a little harder than necessary. Then, Dean darts out a nervous tongue to wet his lips. Castiel’s eyes are drawn irresistibly downwards before he looks back up quickly, blushing.

Dean’s eyes are wide.

He opens his mouth again, and it’s at that moment when the chanting from below them stops.

Dean blinks, and the spell is broken as they both seem to remember where they are. Dean steps back, removing his hand from where it had bracketed Castiel on the wall and bracing it under his gun.

Castiel swallows, then nods to the door. “ _Basement_ ,” he mouths.

Dean nods. Castiel grips his blade tighter in his hand and reaches out to turn the knob again. The door swings open silently to reveal a set of rickety wooden stairs. The warm glow of candlelight casts flickering shadows across the bottom few steps. Castiel looks back up to Dean.

“ _Trap_ ,” Dean mouths.

Castiel shrugs at him. They’ve come this far.

Dean sighs and nods, and Castiel starts down the steps, slowly.

The dirt floor of the basement is covered in intricate sigils drawn in white paint. There are dozens of candles on shelves that line the room, and a black altar sits on the wall opposite the stairs. The old man is standing in front of it, his back to Castiel.

Dean comes down the stairs to stand beside him, and Castiel raises his blade higher. “Show yourself,” he says.

The man turns around, eyes looking first at Castiel, then Dean.

“Oh no. You’ve found me.” His voice is deep and smooth. It also sounds terribly bored.

“Cas? Where is he?” Dean asks, waving his gun randomly in the direction of the altar.

The man rolls his eyes. “Alright, why don’t I make this easier,” he says, and he waves his arm once across his body. “Peek-a-boo,” he says to Dean.

Dean’s Colt suddenly fixes on the man’s head. “Gee, Cas. You said this guy was old. You didn’t say he was _ugly_ too,” Dean smirks.

The old man rolls his eyes again. “Scathing, really. But I’d expect nothing less from a Winchester,” he says. “And of course our little de-feathered friend here,” he turns to Castiel.

“You know us?” Castiel asks, the niggling sense of familiarity still present when he looks at the man.

“Don’t sound so surprised. Everyone knows who you are.” He turns back to Dean, and his voice is soft. “Especially you, Dean. You are quite well-known among my kind.”

“Your kind?” Castiel asks, but the man keeps his dark, glittering eyes on Dean.

Dean is looking at the man intently, then he squints down at the white sigils drawn along the floor. Castiel can see the gears turning in his head, then his eyes widen and he looks back up sharply.

“You’re a reaper.”

The man smiles wickedly. “Bingo.”

His arm is up lightning-quick, flinging out from his body. Before Castiel can blink he feels himself lifted off his feet and he slams back against the wood-planked basement wall, hard, his blade knocked loose from his hand. Across the room, he can see Dean fly through the air before he too is pinned back. Dean struggles fruitlessly for a moment, then simply glares at the reaper.

“I thought it was only fly-boy here who could see me.” The reaper inclines his head to Castiel in a sort of salute. “Some residual angel senses, I suppose. But you,” he turns back to Dean, “you figured me out.”

Dean nods to the sigils on the ground. “I recognized your paint job. Classic, nice lines. Now screw the show-and-tell. What is this, huh? What are you doing in this town?”

The reaper smiles softly. “I’m doing what I must.”

“What does that mean?” Castiel asks, playing for time. His mind is whirring frantically; his blade can kill the reaper, but it’s fallen out of reach of both Dean and himself.

The reaper looks over at Castiel, his face thoughtful. “Thanks in no small part to you, and to you,” he turns back to Dean briefly. “Our ranks have been somewhat depleted. There simply aren’t enough reapers to go around anymore.”

Dean meets Castiel’s eyes for a moment. “Thanks to _us_?”

“Yes, Dean, _you_. _You_ and your brother and your little pet angel here are responsible for the deaths of dozens of reapers; more of us have died in the last few years than in every year before combined – since the beginning. Reapers didn’t die until _you_ came along.”

Dean looks at Castiel again. “So this is what, revenge? We knocked off some of your buddies and you’re taking it out on this town?”

The reaper shakes his head. “The town isn’t revenge, Dean. They’re serving a purpose. Don’t you see? I’m replenishing our ranks.”

Understanding floods Castiel. “The missing people. The twelve of them. You turned them into reapers.”

The reaper smiles, pleased. “I did. They are all hard at work now, all over the world. Following their orders.”

“How?” Castiel asks.

“It was no mean feat. The transformation requires powerful magic.” He gestures to the cloth-covered altar, where Castiel can now see a bowl glowing faintly with blue-white light. The air is pungent with oil and incense. “Much of my own strength is tied into it now.”

“But it doesn’t always work, does it?” Dean asks. “That’s what all those empty people are. They’re your failed experiments.”

The reaper nods at him. “Yes. The transformation takes a lot of energy, and it seems that not every human can withstand the process. It leaves them somewhere in between human and reaper.” He squints at Dean. “Head been hurting at all? It’s what happens when you try to see something that’s only halfway there. Puts an awful strain on the mind.”

Castiel’s eyes cast about the room, looking for something, anything to free them.

“Fix them,” Dean snarls. “Half this town are hollowed out shells because _you_ couldn’t keep it up. Whatever it is you did, undo it.”

“I can’t,” the reaper says. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. All that they were was wiped away by the spell. Their essence, their sense of self, it was not _removed_. It was _eradicated_. They cannot be fixed.”

Dean’s face contorts into something like hatred.

“You son of a bitch,” he spits. “You killed them. More than a hundred people – God, _kids_ – and you _killed_ them.”

The reaper shrugs. “They’re alive. They’ll eat and sleep and go to work and do their taxes. And really, Dean, they should be the least of your concerns right now.” He takes a step forwards.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, and Castiel can hear his bravado slipping a little. He needs to act fast.

“Why do you think I led you here? You spoke of revenge, Dean; here it is. I get you.”

Castiel feels his blood run cold.

“Me? What’d I do to you?” Dean asks.

The reaper shakes his head. He seems almost disappointed. “How quickly you forget. Do you not wonder, Dean, _why_ I am doing this? Why I am forced to channel these arcane magicks to create these flawed, _recycled_ reapers?”

Dean is staring at him uncomprehendingly, but Castiel’s heart sinks.

“There was one, once, who could have made more of us with a mere thought. Who gave us order, and purpose, and structure. Someone old, and wise, and _revered._ ”

Castiel sees the realization crash into Dean.

“Death.”

“Yes, Dean. Death. My creator, my master. My father. You killed him.”

Castiel looks around desperately now, and struggles uselessly where he is pinned to the wall. He manages to kick one foot a little, knocking a candle from the shelf beneath him down to the ground. It sputters and dies on the dirt floor.

Castiel looks up then, hope flaring inside him.

The reaper is advancing on Dean, whose own eyes are now frantically casting about the room. Castiel gets his attention, then looks pointedly at the angel blade on the ground between them.

“What greater justice could there be, Dean, than to have you become like me? You’ve done it before, haven’t you? Death gave you his ring once.” The reaper raises his hand out in front of him, then pauses. “Or perhaps that honour should not be gifted to you. Perhaps you should just _die._ ” He slowly twists his hand into a fist, and Dean cries out in pain.

“Dean!” Fear courses through Castiel as he watches the reaper crush Dean’s still broken ribs. He only has seconds.

Fighting as hard as he can while the reaper is distracted, Castiel aims his foot at the candles on the shelf below him. He kicks out, hard, sending a candle flying towards the altar. It knocks against the back wall but then bounces and rolls away. Dean screams again, and Castiel looks back up, terrified, to see blood starting to soak through the front of Dean’s shirt.

There’s one more candle within reach. Castiel kicks his foot and it soars across the room, landing on the oily cloth of the altar. It takes half a breathless moment, then the altar is in flames. The contents of the metal bowl catch an instant later, sparking out with a crackle.

The reaper spins around then, and lets out a frustrated howl. Castiel is suddenly free from the magic holding him to the wall and he collapses, falling several feet down to the floor. The reaper rounds on him, eyes turned milk-white. He rushes Castiel, extending one arm out to his forehead. Castiel scrambles desperately for a weapon to defend himself, but then the reaper freezes mid-stride. Castiel looks down slightly to see the tip of his angel blade protruding from the reaper’s chest. Then it is sharply withdrawn, and a bright, white light suffuses the basement as the reaper cries out one last time, then falls.

Dean is standing on shaky legs, the blade held in one hand while the other clutches his own bloody chest. He meets Castiel’s eyes, nods once, then falls to his knees.

The flames from the altar are traveling to the wooden walls, and the cloying smoke is stinging Castiel’s eyes. Pulling his coat up over his mouth, he struggles to his feet and races to Dean’s side. He takes back his blade and pulls Dean’s arm across his shoulders, hoisting him up. Dean cries out in pain, but together they make it back up the stairs. Castiel pulls them out into the tall grasses and keeps moving until he’s put at least a hundred feet between them and the beach house.

He slips out from under Dean’s arm then, and lowers him carefully to the ground. Dean collapses on his back with a pained groan, coughing.

“Dean? Dean! Talk to me. How bad is it?” Castiel asks, dropping to his knees as his hands frantically search out the hem of Dean’s shirt.

“’S okay, Cas. He – ow, _fuck_ – he got the other side.”

“What?” Castiel asks, wide-eyed.

Dean grimaces. “Dumb bastard reaper went for my unbroken side. He didn’t make me worse, just made me symmetrical.” He starts to struggle upright, and Castiel helps him to lean his back against a boulder. Dean’s staring at the house, smoke starting to pour out the windows, when Castiel notices his eyes are flooding with tears.

“Dean? Are you alright?”

Dean covers his eyes with one hand, and he lets out one long and very shaky breath.

“It’s my fault, Cas. This town. . . none of this would have happened if I hadn’t killed Death. Hadn’t been so stupid and selfish.” His voice is thick, and from beneath his hand Castiel sees the tears slide down his face.

“You’d do it again,” Castiel says firmly, and Dean pulls his hand away to stare at him, face wet. “If it meant saving Sam, choosing each other, you’d do it again.”

“Damnit Cas, that doesn’t make it better! Half this town, man, a hundred people – innocent people – they’re _damned_ because of me.”

“They are damned because a reaper went rogue,” Castiel argues.

Dean shakes his head, more tears falling. “Don’t try to sugar-coat this, Cas. This is on me. This is my fault. It’s my fault.” He falters there, squeezing his eyes shut as more tears spill out.

Castiel looks at Dean, heartbroken. He knows that nothing he says can help this, so instead he shifts from his knees to sit beside Dean against the boulder. He leans gently against Dean’s side and raises the hand between them to grip on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing lightly.

After a moment, Dean brings his own hand up to cover Castiel’s. They stay like that a long while, sitting in silence in the cold ocean air.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading folks!  
> I'm always a slut for kudos.  
> My tumblr: pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG


	5. Track 5: Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean knows he doesn’t have a lot to offer. He supposes there’s not much in humanity that can compare to several million years as an angel. Really, Dean’s just biding his time, waiting for the moment when Cas figures out he can have something (someone) better. Realizes he can have more than a crap life on the road, riding shotgun with a damaged and emotionally stunted co-pilot. 
> 
> Selfishly, Dean hopes that realization is a long way off. Right now, he’s going to cling to every piece of Cas he’s allowed to.

 

 

Met a man on the roadside crying, without a friend, there's no denying,  
You're incomplete, they'll be no finding looking for what you knew.

Mmm, I'm telling you now, The greatest thing you ever can do now,  
Is trade a smile with someone who's blue now, It's very easy just...

 

 

 

 

They’re just wrapping up a salt-and-burn in Bluff, Utah when Dean first notices it. Misty Haverford goes up in flames and Dean rises from the floor to find Cas struggling a bit harder than normal to catch his breath. In fact, he’s leaning heavily on the mausoleum wall and coughing, a little wetly.

“Hey, dude, you okay?” Dean asks.

Cas throws him a look. “I’m fine, Dean.” He pushes away from the wall but sways a little on his feet.

Dean frowns, peering closer at the dark circles under his eyes. “You sure? You don’t normally get out of breath like that.”

“Will you quit asking me, Dean? Everything’s fine. Now, let’s get out of here.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but lets it go for now. The last thing they need is to start bickering again.

Things have been good in the last few days, and only occasionally awkward. Which is impressive, considering Dean had woken up with a raging hard-on a week earlier, with Cas fucking wrapped around him and fucking _nuzzling_ his neck. He thinks Cas hadn’t realized. He _hopes_ Cas hadn’t realized, and had been totally oblivious to Dean desperately jerking himself off in the shower moments later.

It was his own damn fault for insisting Cas share the bed with him. Playing with fucking fire.

The car is parked to the side of the road, and they’re piling their shotguns and shovels back into the trunk when it happens. Cas freezes, arm extended over the open trunk, and Dean turns to look at him.

“Cas?”

Cas stares back, his expression mildly alarmed.

Then he sneezes. Loudly.

“Gesundheit,” Dean says.

Cas looks scandalised. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Dean chuckles a little. “Why’re you sorry, dude? You sneezed. You’ve probably got a cold. Would explain why you were all out of breath back there.”

Cas frowns. “I’ve never had a cold.”

“Well, it’s not much fun, but there are worse things,” Dean says, continuing to pack up the trunk. “It’s fine, we can take it easy for a few days. Sam hasn’t sent anything new our way yet, so we’ll head back to the motel and stay put for a bit. We managed to fly pretty under the radar on this one; we shouldn’t have any trouble staying in town.”

“It’s not a big deal, Dean, we don’t need to take a break on my account,” Cas says, although the coughing fit that starts up immediately after seems to contradict him slightly.

“Like hell,” Dean says, walking him to the passenger side and opening the door. “Who was the one mother-henning me to kingdom come like, a week ago?”

“That was different,” Cas says obstinately. “You were viciously attacked by a Hellhound.”

“Yeah, thanks Cas. I was there.”

“This is just a cold.”

Dean all but forces him down into the seat. “And I’m not talking about a hospital and a month of bedrest. I’m talking about a couple days in a motel room.”

Cas scowls at him, but stays silent.

Dean decides to take it as a win. “Alright, good. Let’s head on back. But we’re making a stop first; you need stuff.”

Cas raises one eyebrow. “Stuff?”

“Yes, Typhoid Mary, you’re sick and you need stuff.”

Cas squints at him. “Typhoid Mary was never sick. She was just a carrier.”

“. . . Shut up.”

Cas sneezes again.

 

 

 

 

Getting Cas to stay in bed the next morning is a struggle. They’d picked up tissues and cough syrup and even a jug of orange juice the night before, and Dean’s ready to settle in for the long haul, but Cas keeps trying to get up and work. Dean finally confiscates the laptop when he comes out of the shower to find Cas at the table, scouring police reports for a new case.

“Cas, so help me I will blanket-burrito you.”

Cas blinks at him through hazy, bloodshot eyes. “You’ll what?”

“Blanket-burrito. It’s exactly what it sounds like. I used to do it to Sammy all the time, before he got big enough to do it back. Now get your ass back in bed.”

Cas glares at him. “I’m not tired, Dean.”

“Tell that to the bags under your eyes,” Dean retorts. “And fine, you don’t want to sleep, don’t. But you’re gonna lie down, I am too, and we’re gonna find a crappy movie to watch.” He sits down, leaning back against his headboard, then looks pointedly between Cas and the other bed.

Cas heaves a sigh that turns into a drawn-out coughing fit, then begrudgingly heads back to his bed. He crawls in and leans back against his pillows, and Dean gives him a satisfied smile.

“There, good. Stay,” he warns, and ignores Cas’ glare as he turns on the tv and flips through the channels. Through some brilliant stroke of luck, he finds _Conan the Barbarian_ after a few minutes of searching.

“Oh, excellent, this is a _classic_ ,” Dean exclaims. He turns to Cas, only to find him completely passed out beneath his covers.

“Typical,” Dean snorts, but then he smiles softly and turns the volume on the tv down.

 

 

 

 

Cas wakes up a few hours later, sniffling like crazy. Dean’s over at the little kitchenette stove, but steps away to bring him a fresh box of tissues and some cough syrup.

“Mornin,’ Sleeping Beauty,” he says, holding out the little bottle. “Time for another hit of the good stuff.”

Cas struggles upright in the bed. “‘The good stuff’ tastes awful,” he complains, but takes the bottle anyway.

“Yes it does,” Dean agrees, returning to the stove.

Cas takes a swig and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand with a grimace. “What are you doing?” he asks thickly, setting the cough syrup down on the nightstand.

“I’m making you soup.”

“Soup?”

“Mmm, and not just any soup. This is tomato rice soup, a patented Campbell family recipe, passed down through three generations. And it’s ready just in time,” he says, turning off the heat and pouring some out into a bowl. He walks it carefully across the room and sits down on the edge of Cas’ bed, holding it out.

Cas eyes the bowl warily, but accepts it. He takes a few spoonfuls, under Dean’s expectant gaze.

“Well?” Dean asks.

Cas swallows a mouthful, then lowers the bowl down into his lap. “This is very unpleasant.”

Dean frowns, a little hurt. “Really?”

Cas looks up at him, confused for a moment. “Sorry, not the soup,” he says quickly. “I’m sure it’s very good, although I don’t think I can taste anything right now.” He offers Dean a little smile, before his face falls again. “I meant this – sickness. Feeling tired and useless. One of humanity’s many benefits,” he says bitterly.

Dean swallows. “Hey, listen to me. First off, you’re not useless. And even if you were, that’s okay sometimes. You don’t have to be ‘useful’ all the time, that’s not how it works. Second,” he goes on, when Cas looks like he’s about to argue. “Yes, being sick sucks. But c’mon man, you know there’s a heck of a lot more to being human than just this crap.”

Cas reaches for a tissue and blows his nose loudly. “Doesn’t feel like it right now,” he grumbles.

And just like that, Dean has a new mission.

 

 

 

 

Dean knows he doesn’t have a lot to offer. He supposes there’s not much in humanity that can compare to several million years as an angel. Really, Dean’s just biding his time, waiting for the moment when Cas figures out he can have something (someone) better. Realizes he can have more than a crap life on the road, riding shotgun with a damaged and emotionally stunted co-pilot.

Selfishly, Dean hopes that realization is a long way off. Right now, he’s going to cling to every piece of Cas he’s allowed to.

They stay in Bluff another day, then head south – Dean’s hoping the drier air will be better for Cas’ lungs. He’s gotten over the worst of the cold, it seems, but the cough is persistent.

“I’m feeling fine, Dean,” Cas complains from the passenger seat. “You can tell Sam we’re ready to get back to work.”

“We’re taking one more night off, Cas. New Mexico: we’ll find us a bar somewhere, hustle a little pool, relax a bit. Besides, it’s Thanksgiving. Let’s call it a vacation.”

Cas purses his lips. “Alright, one night. Then we start looking for a new job.”

“That’s the spirit. You are going to experience the finer things in life, Cas.”

Cas looks at him skeptically, and Dean grins before turning back to the road.

They’re at the counter of a Santa Fe dive called The Vault a few hours later. Their beers come in dusty glasses, the bar top is sticky, and there’s a crowd of half-drunk cavemen around the pool tables at the back wall.

“Perfect,” Dean says.

Cas gives him a look.

Dean drains his beer quickly and stands. He scrubs his hands through his hair and attempts to muss up his shirt a little. Cas shakes his head and turns back to the bar.

“No no, you’re coming with,” Dean says, trying to pull Cas up from his stool.

“I’ve seen you hustle pool before, Dean.”

“Yes, you’ve _seen_ , but it’s time to get off the bench and try for an assist.”

Cas frowns. “I’ve watched you, but I’ve never played before.”

“Oh no, you’re not playing. You’re gonna be my hype man. Or technically, the opposite of that I guess. Just follow my lead.”

Cas sighs and stands from the bar, keeping hold of his still mostly-full beer. Dean gives him a cheeky wink and then adopts a crooked sort of walk, leading the way towards the rowdy group at the tables in the back.

“Hey, fellas, anybody lookin’ to play?” he calls, and a few of the men look up. “See, I’ve got a little bet going with my friend here,” he nods back at Cas. “He thinks I’m too far gone to play right now, but I think I could wipe the floor with any one of you.” He fumbles a handful of bills out of his jacket pocket, dropping a few to the ground.

One of the men, whose name is probably Biff or Chad or something, eyes the money with interest. “You sure there, friend?” he asks, but his look is greedy. “Wouldn’t want to take advantage.”

Dean smirks at him, and adds a slight sway to his stance. “Nah, man, I’m fine, I’m great. Let’s do this. Unless my _babysitter_ has something to say about it.” He turns around to Cas and gives him a significant look.

Cas levels him with a stare. “No Dean. You’re too drunk,” he says flatly.

Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head minutely before turning back around with a lopsided smile. “Screw you, Cas. We’re doing this.”

The game goes as expected: Dean plays terribly, Cas keeps throwing him exasperated looks that are mostly genuine, and all the while Dean studies Biff’s technique. He’s not bad, actually, but Dean’s been doing this since he was fourteen.

Biff sinks the eight ball, and Dean instantly begs to win his money back. Cas starts up a litany of half-hearted protests but both Dean and Biff wave him off. Predictably, the next game is over very quickly.

“You little bitch,” Biff growls. He’s turned beet-red and his friends are drawing up behind him. “Gimme back my money or I’m taking it outta your ass.”

“This was _supposed_ to be a relaxing night,” Cas points out helpfully from behind Dean.

One of Biff’s friends starts to pull him away from the table. “C’mon, man. Little bitch ain’t worth it.”

They drag him to the door and Dean leans back against the pool table, cash in hand.

Cas is looking a little amused now. “Is this how normal people spend their Thanksgivings?” he asks.

Dean chuckles. “We’re a lot of things, Cas, but normal ain’t one of them.”

Cas smiles a little, then shifts his weight uncomfortably. “It seems you have someone’s attention,” he says.

Dean looks at him for a moment, confused, then Cas angles his head to the side. Dean looks to his left to find a woman at the bar watching him. She’s gorgeous; petite, dark curly hair, and curves for days. She flashes him a smile and raises her drink to him in a salute.

Dean swallows, blushing a little, and turns back to Cas, who is studiously examining his empty beer glass.

“Are you going to. . .” Cas asks, not looking at him.

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. Gettin’ a little too old for that now, I guess.”

Cas looks back up at him, and for a moment Dean thinks he sees something like relief in his eyes. “Oh, alright,” he says.

Dean nods a little awkwardly. After a moment he gestures to the pool table. “So, we’ve got the table. Want me to finally teach you to play?”

“I think I’ve had enough pool for today,” Cas says, smiling slightly.

“Fair enough,” Dean says. “Alright, tell you what. Let’s get out of here; I’ve got an idea.”

Cas looks at him curiously, but sets his glass down and they walk out to the car.

Dean’s mind is whirring as they pull away from the bar.

He’s imagining it, he has to be.

Dean glances at Cas out of the corner of his eye. He’s silent, staring out the passenger window, and there’s still the faintest trace of a smile on his face.

Cas looked uncomfortable when he’d pointed out the woman at the bar because nobody likes third-wheeling someone else’s hookups. He looked relieved when Dean dismissed her because then he wouldn’t have to figure out a motel and a ride on his own. That’s all.

But there had been that moment in the beach house last week. At the time, Dean had chalked up Cas’ reaction to adrenaline and surprise, so he’d pushed it completely from his mind. But it was still a _moment_.

Dean gives himself a mental shake. He’s not going to let himself get hopeful again. They have a good thing going, more or less, and it’s enough for now.

Dean finally spots the glowing sign on the road and pulls into the parking lot. Cas turns and gives him a puzzled look.

“This is your idea?” he asks.

“It’s Thanksgiving, Cas. We’re gettin’ us a bird.”

Cas peers out the window. “This is a KFC,” he says. “You’re supposed to have turkey on Thanksgiving. Even I know that.”

“Ah, see, this is another Winchester tradition. Bucket of extra crispy, just like Dad used to make. Well, buy. And besides, a bird’s a bird, Cas,” he says, climbing out of the car. “If we were back at the bunker I’d make you the works, but we’re on the road, so this is what we get. We’ll grab some takeout, find us a motel, and binge on some Netflix for a while. Perfect night.”

Cas looks a little bemused, but smiles at him. “Alright.”

Dean smiles back. He can’t help it.

 

 

 

 

They’re back on the road a day later, heading to Oakland, Texas and what Sam thinks is a werewolf. Unfortunately, they get slowed up by some construction past Lubbock and have to pull over for the night when they both get too tired to push on to a motel.

Dean is settled in the front seat, but Cas keeps rolling over and fidgeting in the back, causing the leather to creak and Dean to damn near lose his mind.

“Cas. . .” he says wearily.

“I’m sorry,” Cas grumbles. “I don’t know how you’ve done this your whole life.”

“Just used to it, I guess,” Dean says, propping his head up on the door. “Didn’t have a choice a lot of the time growing up. Even now, I think it’s sometimes easier for me to crash out in Baby than in some random motel.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” Cas says.

He stills, and it’s quiet for a while, but they’re both still wide awake.

After a few minutes, Dean tries again. “Cas –”

“I’m not making any noise!” Cas says defensively.

Dean huffs. “Yeah, I know, but you’re also still awake.”

“I’m sorry for not falling asleep on your schedule, Dean.”

“You’re not sleeping at all, Cas. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

There’s a little pause. “Well like I said, this seat is very uncomfortable.”

Dean straightens up, gingerly sliding backwards to lean more fully against the passenger door. His side is almost fully healed, but his ribs still twinge with pain now and then. Looking over the seat, he can see Cas stretched out on his back; his eyes are closed and his arms are crossed over his chest. “You know that’s not what I meant. You always go to bed after me and you’re awake whenever I get up in the morning. It’s no wonder you got sick, buddy, you’re running yourself ragged and not giving your body a chance to recharge.”

Cas keeps his head flat down on the back seat, but his eyes open and he looks up at Dean, irritation crossing his face. “Dean, can you just _leave it_? I don’t want to talk about this.”

“We’re gonna talk about this, Cas, I’m gonna keep bugging you until we do. So spill.”

Cas looks at him a moment longer, then casts his eyes up to the roof. “I can’t sleep.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, I get that. How come?”

There’s a long pause, then Cas swallows visibly, and keeps his eyes on the roof. “I have. . . dreams,” he says quietly.

Understanding hits Dean at once. “Nightmares?”

Cas doesn’t say anything, but that’s answer enough.

Dean’s silent for a while. “What about?” he asks eventually.

Cas looks back at him for a moment, then to the roof again.

“Hey, you don’t have to say if you don’t want to. But I just – I get it, you know? When you’ve been through the kind of stuff we’ve been through. . .” Dean trails off, looking out the front window a moment. “There’ve been times when it’s hit me pretty bad. After I was a demon – actually pretty much the whole time I had the Mark – and after Hell too. But you uh,” he pauses, “you already know about that stuff.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Dean turns back around and Cas is looking at him heavily.

“Yeah, it was,” Dean nods.

“And it doesn’t get better?”

Dean shrugs a little. “It comes and it goes. I don’t think we ever get rid of it. But it’s not always bad.”

“And when it’s bad, how do you deal with it?”

“I drink.”

Cas cocks an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t recommend that, by the way.”

Cas snorts softly, and Dean has to chuckle a little.

“I dunno, man. Sam’d probably have some hippy-dippy yoga bullshit for you about centering your mind or something. I think that’s what works for him, and his own personal brand of nightmare-mess. But that crap never ends up working for me. I just. . . keep grinding, I guess, and it gets a little better for a while.”

Cas nods, eyes never leaving Dean. There’s another long silence, and Dean turns his head back to the front window.

“They’re always different.” Dean turns back to find Cas’ eyes pointing upwards again. “My nightmares, I see all kinds of things. Lucifer, sometimes. The leviathan. The brothers and sisters I’ve killed. Balthazar –” he breaks off, voice hitching a little, and there’s a lump forming in Dean’s throat. “Hannah, Naomi – you.”

Dean furrows his brow. “Me?”

Cas nods. He moves a little upwards, drawing his back against the rear door, and meets Dean’s eyes. “You. Dead. All around me, a thousand different ways. All by my hand.”

Dean’s finding it a little hard to draw in oxygen. “They’re – they’re just dreams, Cas,” he tries.

Cas shakes his head. “That one’s not. It’s a memory.”

Dean stares at him uncomprehendingly. “What are you talking about, man?”

Cas breaks his eyes away, casting them around the car with a bitter smile. “It’s strange, it was so long ago now.”

“ _Cas._ ”

Cas finds his eyes again. “Naomi, back when she had me under her control. She trained me to kill you. Conditioned me, so that when the time came I wouldn’t hesitate.”

Dean stares. “You’re talking about the crypt.”

Cas offers that bitter smile again. “Yes. When I very nearly killed you. Before that day, she had me practice. I slaughtered facsimiles of you, over and over, until I could do it without hesitation.”

Deans eyes are wide and he’s still struggling to draw in air. “You didn’t do it,” he finally manages. “You broke free.”

Cas nods. “Yes, I did. But even now I close my eyes and I see a thousand versions of you, dead at my feet.”

It feels like Dean’s been punched in the gut. There’s nothing he can say. Nothing he can ever say that can fix that. He’s just speechless, staring at Cas as Cas stares right back.

Cas seems to understand though, and he leans further down against the rear door and gives Dean a soft smile. “I’ll try to sleep.”

Dean finally swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he nods. “And, y’know. I’m here.”

Cas smiles fully this time. “I know.”

 

 

 

 

They make quick work of the werewolf in Oakland, and Sam has them back on the road heading north the very next day. Cas still doesn’t sleep, but Dean gets it now, at least. He can’t change anything for Cas; he can’t fix Cas’ bad memories and his traumas any more than he can fix his own. But he can be here.

It’s late in the afternoon when they cross up into Colorado. They made good time today; they’ll stop for the night soon and make it to Ouray before lunch tomorrow. Dean’s just switching his tapes over when he spots a sign on the tree-lined highway. Inspiration strikes and he starts to pull off the road.

“Dean?” Cas asks, looking up from his phone as they come to a stop.

“C’mon,” Dean says, climbing out of the car. “Something you should see.”

Cas looks a little puzzled, but gets out too. “What are we doing? I thought you wanted to make it to Silverton by tonight.”

“We will, but we’ve got time.” He opens the rear door and reaches into the green cooler, pulling out two beer bottles. “C’mon,” he says again, and starts leading Cas down a little trail.

They walk it for a minute or two, then the trees fall away to reveal a rocky outcropping with a couple picnic tables. It’s bordered by a little stone wall about hip-height and beyond it lies a sheer cliff overlooking the mountains. They’re beautiful; painted varying shades of orange and red by the turning season and burnt by the setting sun.

Dean smiles to himself then sits down on the top of one of the picnic tables. He puts his feet on the seat and pats the spot next to him. Cas comes to sit beside him and Dean hands him his beer.

“There’s little lookout spots like this all over the country. When we were kids me and Sam would always try to get Dad to pull over so we could run around a bit, stretch our legs. I still do it sometimes, when I get a chance.” He takes a swig of his beer and stares out at the distant treeline, where the sun is just touching the horizon. “I mean, I figure I’ve driven every backroad in the lower forty-eight at least twice over by now, seen it all. But, I dunno, I still like to stop and look every now and then. All the times we’ve. . . saved the world, it’s nice to remind myself what it is we fight for. Even when we fail.” He pauses, his mind rushing back to Ocean City and the lives the rogue reaper had destroyed. “Even when we fail, and when we go weeks without sleeping because we can’t shake the damn nightmares, all this makes it worth it. World’s still spinning because of us.”

They sit in silence a moment, then Dean turns to Cas and all the air leaves his lungs.

Cas isn’t looking back; he’s gazing outwards, taking in the view, and for a moment the ever-present shadows under his eyes are gone. His mouth is curved into a gentle smile and his eyes are soft.

And all of a sudden, Dean knows he’s going to kiss him.

He doesn’t want to hold it all in any longer. Doesn’t want to second-guess himself and string it all out with what-ifs and maybes. All he knows is that Cas is here, beside him, _glowing_ in the setting sun and wearing an expression that Dean thinks might be contentment.

Dean’s so caught up in staring at him that he jumps a little when Cas speaks.

“So, this is humanity then?” he asks, eyes still out on the horizon. “Hustling pool, fried chicken, and nice views?”

Dean swallows. “There’s worse things.”

Cas laughs softly, and Dean leans in.

Cas turns to face him, then draws back a little, startled. But Dean keeps going, closing his eyes and moving in and in until their lips meet. Cas freezes, and Dean’s hand comes up to his face, thumb and forefinger lightly holding his chin.

The world falls away for a bit. For one brief moment Dean’s existence narrows down to Cas’ lips, warm and soft beneath his own. Dean doesn’t feel the cool breeze on his skin and he doesn’t hear the frantic pounding of his heart in his ears. It’s all just Cas.

Dean doesn’t linger, doesn’t try to deepen the kiss. He draws away slowly and opens his eyes to find Cas staring back at him, his face showing nothing but absolute shock.

“There’s, um,” Dean murmurs, a little breathlessly. His eyes stay locked on Cas.’ “There’s that, too.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move. He’s still frozen, eyes like dinner plates, and in that moment reality comes crashing back in. Suddenly the cold air is biting at Dean’s skin and the roaring blood in his ears is deafening. Dean drops his hand and leans all the way back.

“We should, um, we should get going,” he says quickly. He nods out to the horizon, where the sun has just disappeared. “It’s getting late.” He abandons his half-drunk beer and climbs down from the table, setting off up the trail without a backward glance.

He slips back into the car and has to wait almost a full minute before Cas appears at the trailhead, his face still a little shell-shocked. Dean turns the ignition and immediately jams a new cassette into the deck. Cas slides into the front seat and turns his head to speak, but Dean keeps his eyes on the road and cranks the volume dial.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t think I was going to write the 8x17 conversation, but then it happened.  
> Also that kiss was sappy af and I have absolutely no regrets. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, friends.  
> I'm always a slut for kudos.  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG


	6. Track 6: Tea For One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam likes the quiet. He does. It’s just that the bunker’s really big. 
> 
> It’s always been big. It’s not like the bunker itself has changed at all in the last few months. The halls are just as long and the library ceiling is just as high. But now that Sam’s in there alone, it’s bigness has become really hard to ignore.

Sittin, lookin at the clock, time moves so slow   
I've been watchin for the hands to move   
Until I just can't look no more   
How come twenty four hours, Baby sometimes seems to slip into days?   
A minute seems like a lifetime, Baby when I feel this way.

 

 

Sam likes the quiet. He does. It’s just that the bunker’s really _big_.

It’s always been big. It’s not like the bunker itself has changed at all in the last few months. The halls are just as long and the library ceiling is just as high. But now that Sam’s in there alone, it’s bigness has become really hard to ignore.

It’s not some great mystery why that is. Dean left, and Cas went with him, but that’s good, and that’s _right_. Ever since everything went down with the British Men of Letters, Sam knows he has a different role in the big fight, and for the first time in a really long time he feels like he’s where he’s supposed to be. He doesn’t regret staying behind. But Dean is always so big, so loud, so _much_. Ever since they were kids, Dean always managed to fill up whatever space he was in.

Dean had made the bunker feel small. He’d made it feel like a _home_. Now it’s back to being a workplace.

Sam’s keeping busy, though. It’s not like he doesn’t have lots to do; he’s cataloguing and filing and organizing box after box of documents. He’d spent the better part of a day trying to wrestle the industrial photocopier down the staircase into the library and it’s been on pretty much nonstop, scanning lore books and files to the online archive and making extra hard-copies, to be distributed to the burgeoning American hunter network.

Other than his own room, he mostly sticks to the library and the kitchen. He’s got all the phone banks hooked up in the war room, and he can set the system to forward to his cell if he needs to go spelunking in one of the bunker’s innumerable storage rooms. He’s just coming back upstairs from one such trip when Dean calls.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, heading into the kitchen to start on some dinner.

“Man, we got no idea what the hell we’re dealing with here,” Dean says. He sounds wearied, and Sam can hear the tv on in the background. “Going by the list of vics we thought it might be Amazons again, but the marks left on the bodies don’t match.”

Sam props the phone on his shoulder and reaches into the fridge. “Alright, well all the vics are men. . . succubus maybe?”

“Maybe,” Dean says. “But I dunno, it’s been a long time since we ran into one of them. Figure they’re practically extinct by now, at least in this part of the world.”

The fridge contents are disappointing. He’s going to have to remember to make a run up into Hastings soon, so he doesn’t have to resort to the Cold War-era canned goods again. Once was enough.

“Okay, well send me the pics from the morgue, maybe I can find something that matches up with the wounds on the bodies,” Sam says, abandoning the fridge and heading to the cupboards. He’s pretty sure he’s still got some instant oatmeal back in there.

“Yeah, will do,” Dean says. Then he’s quiet for a bit.

Sam pulls a bowl down from the shelf. “Was there something else?”

“No,” Dean says, a little too quickly.

Sam huffs a small laugh. “Yeah, sounds like it.”

“It’s nothing.” There’s another pause. “I just might’ve done something stupid,” he mumbles.

“I’ll mark the calendar,” Sam says, leaning back against the countertop. It’s just then that he hears the front door clanking open.

“Helllooo?” Jody’s voice carries down into the kitchen. “Anybody home?”

“That Jody?” Dean asks, as Sam pushes off from the counter.

“Yeah, I forgot, she said she’d be stopping by.”

“Alright, well, say hi for me. I gotta go. Talk to ya later, Sammy,” Dean blurts, then hangs up.

“Wait –” Sam starts uselessly, before shaking his head and pocketing his phone. He walks out into the war room to find Jody making her way down the stairs, cardboard box in her arms.

“Hey, Sam, how you doing?” she asks warmly. He walks up a few steps and relieves her of the box. “As requested, these are all the books left in that storage locker in Omaha.”

“Perfect, thanks Jody,” he says, setting the box on the war room table. “I’m gonna resupply that one soon, I just need this last batch scanned into the archive.” He turns back around to give her a hug, and she presses a kiss to his cheek.

“You got it, kid. Any excuse to come visit the batcave.” She nods around the room. “How you doing in here?”

“I’m good,” he smiles. “Keepin’ busy. How’re the girls?”

Jody smiles back. “Alex is good; she’s heading into exams in a couple weeks. And Claire’s working a haunting in North Carolina, for which she quote ‘doesn’t need a babysitter,’” Jody rolls her eyes. “But she’s good too.” She studies Sam for a moment, then the empty library behind him. “I’ll tell her to swing by here on her way back home.”

She’s got that Concerned Mom look in her eyes and a tone that Sam recognizes instantly. “I’m really okay here, Jody,” he says, sincerely. “This is where I want to be right now.”

She looks at him another moment, then reaches out to pat his arm. “Yeah, okay. I just worry sometimes.”

“I know. But I’m good,” he says.

She smiles again, and nods. “Alright. And how’s your big brother?”

“Uh, he’s good, I think. He and Cas got back out there a few weeks ago.”

Jody frowns. “That’s a little quick, isn’t it? Last time I saw him he looked like he’d be off his feet at least another month or two.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You know Dean. Nothing’s gonna keep him off the job for too long.”

“True,” she agrees.

Sam nods his head back to the kitchen. “So, stay for dinner? Although I don’t have much in the way of food right now.”

She smiles apologetically. “I would, really, but I’m actually heading out to meet your mom.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks. “She’s just over in St Louis right now, right?”

“Yeah, she’s got a vamp nest, wanted another set of hands.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at her. “Don’t you have, like, a full-time job? Fairly important position?”

She laughs. “That’s the great thing about being the boss, Sam. Can basically do whatever I want. Besides, you’d be surprised the amount of vacation days I’ve got stocked up.” She eyes him sideways for a moment. “So, your mom, she’s been working with a hunter named Ian, right? You met him?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, once, about a month ago, they stopped by in between jobs. He seems like a good guy.”

Jody hesitates a bit. “Are they. . . something?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

Sam sits down on the edge of the table, musing slightly. “I don’t know, and I kinda don’t know how to ask, you know? It’s a little. . .”

“Weird?” Jody finishes.

Sam laughs. “Yeah, just a bit. And by the way, I wouldn’t say anything to Dean, if it comes up. I don’t know how he’d take it.”

Jody nods sagely. “Say no more, my lips are sealed. But I’ll see if I can pick up on any vibes on this next job. Speaking of,” she looks at her watch. “I’ve gotta jet. They’re expecting me by tomorrow morning.”

Sam smiles and steps forward to hug her. “Alright, be safe out there. Thanks for the books.”

“Any time, kid,” she hugs him tightly back. “You call if you ever need anything. Love to your brother, too.” She releases him and heads back up the stairs.

Sam waves her out the door, then the bunker is silent. He runs a hand through his hair, sighs, and heads back into the kitchen and his bowl of oatmeal.

 

 

 

 

Over the years, Bobby had set up a couple dozen cabins and lockups all around the country, to be used as safe houses and crash sites for hunters in the know. They’d fallen a little by the wayside in the years since he’d died, but now that he’s not out in the field so much Sam’s decided to take over the reigns. He’s been making trips out over the last couple months, moving from cabin to cabin, resupplying some and abandoning others, and even getting a couple new places set up. He’s making sure they’ve all got water and electricity (generators for the ones off the grid), stocking them with food, blankets, and first aid supplies, and bringing in his photocopies of some of the bunker’s lore books.

Sam’s on his way now to a cabin just north of Stillwater, Oklahoma. It’s one of the places that’s needed a lot of work; Sam had spent one of the first weekends after Dean and Cas took off engaged in a thoroughly exhausting battle with a family of raccoons that had taken up residence. After making sure they haven’t decided to move back in, and with the addition of some of the books Jody had brought him yesterday, the place will be up and running.

Compared to his dozen or so other resupply missions around the country, Stillwater is pretty much a milk run. It’s only a few hours away, even driving Cas’ clunker of a truck, but for some reason the road still seems long and boring.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s on his own, or maybe he’s just gotten really used to staying in one place, but Sam’s finding he doesn’t want to spend twelve hours a day in a car anymore. He likes going home to the same bed every night.

He’s not exactly sure when that happened.

 

 

 

 

He makes it back home late that night, arms laden with groceries. He heads to the kitchen to start packing them away, but pauses when he hears his phone chirp.

His heart gives an embarrassing flutter when he sees Eileen’s name heading the message.

**Hey Sam. :) I’m working a job in Salina and I think I’m stumped. If you’re at home right now, would you mind swinging through for a house call? I’ll buy you lunch. Tomorrow?**

He doesn’t fight the grin that threatens to crack his face as he types his reply.

**Yeah, tomorrow works. Text me the address and I’ll be there.**

He scans the message before sending it. It looks good, he thinks. He doesn’t look too eager. Still professional.

He shakes his head and hits send, grateful that Dean’s not here to see him blushing like a teenaged girl.

 

 

 

 

Sam makes it to Salina in under an hour and a half, and almost a full hour before they’d agreed to meet. He sits in the diner parking lot for a while, before the December air becomes too much for him and he decides to wait inside with a cup of coffee instead. He’s irritatingly nervous, and has to restrain himself from starting on a second cup before she even gets there.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait too much longer. He watches as she steps through the front door and starts scanning the room for him, and he raises a hand in a welcoming wave. She sees him and smiles; her cheeks are a little pink from the cold and she has a wool hat on over her dark hair and God, does she look beautiful. His nerves flare up again as he rises to greet her.

“Hey, Sam,” she says, moving in to wrap her arms around his waist. He hugs her back, then pulls away to sign to her.

_Hey. How are you?_

 

She cocks an amused eyebrow at him, then signs back, somewhat slower than her normal speed.

_I’m good, other than this case which is kicking my ass._

Sam smiles and nods at her. _We’ll figure it out. Want something to eat?_

_God yes._

They sit, and she glances at the menu for a bit. Sam tries to distract himself from staring by casting his eyes around the diner. There’s an elderly couple sitting a few tables over. The man is absorbed in finishing his slice of pie, but the woman is looking back and forth between Sam and Eileen with a slight grin on her face. Sam catches her eye and she winks, then turns back to her companion.

Sam looks back at Eileen as the waitress approaches. She takes their orders then heads back to the kitchen, and Eileen pulls out a file from her bag.

_Thanks for coming down to help. I thought you were retired?_ she asks, teasing.

_Semi-retired_ , Sam says, smiling. _I still get out into the field every now and then._

She stares at his hands for a moment, then looks back up to his face. “You’ve been practising,” she says out loud.

Sam nods, blushing. “Yeah, I mean a bit.”

She nods back, her eyes twinkling. “Why don’t we stick to talking like this. You’re still pretty bad at it.”

Sam laughs and rubs a hand at the back of his head. “Yeah, alright, fair enough.”

She grins, then opens the file. “So, this case. Like I said, I’m stumped.” She hands it across the table just as Sam’s phone goes off.

He holds up a finger to her and pulls it out. He sees Dean’s name on the caller ID and looks back up to Eileen apologetically. “Sorry, it’s my brother.”

She nods at him and he picks up.

“Hey man, kinda busy here,” he says.

“Yeah, well so are we!” Dean’s slightly panicked voice carries through the speaker. In the background Sam can hear crashing and indistinct yelling.

“Whoa, you guys okay?” he asks.

“It’s got _wings_ , Sam! Great big frickin’ _wings_!” There’s another crash and more yelling.

“Wings, uh, okay. Dragon?” Sam hazards, and Eileen gives him an intrigued look from across the table.

“Yeah, see, that’s what _I_ said,” Dean says. “Thanks Sam. Hear that, Cas? Sam agr-” Dean hangs up the phone.

Sam sets it back on the table.

“Is he alright?” Eileen asks.

“Probably not.” Sam shrugs and rolls his eyes. “So sorry, your case. What’s going on?”

She hands him the file. “I’ve got a bunch of sick kids, doctors don’t have a clue. I thought I was dealing with Changelings, but I can’t find any hard evidence of a mother.”

Sam frowns down at the file. “I don’t think you will. I think you’re actually looking for a Shtriga.”

She frowns at him, and so he finger-spells out the letters to her. “Shtriga. They’re pretty rare; I’ve only heard of one stateside in the last thirty or so years. But they feed off the life force of kids. Would account for the sickness you’re seeing.” He hands the file back to her.

“How can I kill it?” she asks.

“Get it while it’s feeding, that’s when it’s weakest. You’ll have to set a trap for it, get it to lower its guard. We had to use a kid as bait last time.” He grimaces. “It sucks, a lot, but that’s the only way I know how.”

She nods grimly. “I’ll make it work.”

“Do you want a hand? I can come with; I’ve taken one of these before.”

She shakes her head and gives him a wink. “I’ve got it. Thanks though.”

The waitress comes by then with their plates, and they talk a bit while they eat. It’s nice, easy even, despite Sam’s raging nerves. He’s trying to remember that this is basically a business meeting, but he can’t help but think of it as a date.

“So, how are you doing?” she asks, wiping up the last of her ketchup with a fry. “Your brother’s back out on the road now, right? With his angel friend?”

Sam nods, indicating his phone on the table. “Yeah. They’re working a gig right now over in Kentucky. They keep in touch though, every couple days, and I send them jobs when they come in.”

“And you said your mom’s a hunter too, right? She’s out on the job a lot?”

“Yeah, same deal. She swings through every now and then,” he says.

She studies him a moment and seems to see something in his face. “So it’s just you in that big bunker of yours?”

He swallows. “Yeah. It’s not as bad as it seems, I actually really like what I’m doing now. It’s just sometimes kinda. . .”

“Lonely?” she asks, her eyes too knowing for Sam’s liking.

“Maybe sometimes,” he allows. “It’s the size of the place. And a lot of the time it’s just too quiet, you know?”

She gives him an amused look. “No Sam, please, tell me what that’s like.”

He blushes and gives an embarrassed laugh. “Right, sorry, my bad.”

She looks at him thoughtfully. “Sounds like you could use some company in there.”

Sam’s brain stutters to a halt for a minute. He opens his mouth to attempt a reply, and just then his phone rings again. It’s Cas this time. “Sorry, one sec. Hey Cas,” he says into the receiver.

“Sam,” Cas says. He sounds out of breath but whatever was crashing around seems to have stopped. “It’s _not_ a dragon, I think it’s a Gorgon.”

“A Gorgon? Seriously? Like, Medusa?”

Eileen raises her eyebrows at him.

“Yes, although I didn’t think they had wings. But it has snakes for hair,” Cas says. Sam can hear Dean cursing in the background.

“Wings, and snakes for hair,” Sam muses. “Okay, I’ll look up everything I can find about Gorgons as soon as I get home.”

“Fury,” Eileen says.

Sam looks up at her, phone still at his ear. “What?”

“ _Fury._ ”

“I said where are you?” Cas says at the same time.

“No, hang on Cas, not you. Eileen, did you say Fury?” Sam asks.

She nods.

“Eileen?” Cas asks.

“Wings, and snakes for hair,” she says, signing out the words as she goes. Sam puts the phone on speaker. “Also called Erinyes. I hunted one in Jasper about five years ago. Are all the victims men?”

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

She smiles and nods again. “Fury. You need a silver blade coated in snake venom. Any kind.”

A broad grin unfurls across Sam’s face. “You get that Cas?”

“Yes, I did. Thank her for me, Sam.”

“He says thanks,” Sam relays, and Eileen inclines her head slightly. “You two stay safe out there,” he says and hangs up.

“They sound like they’re having fun,” Eileen says.

“Yeah, thanks for the help on that one,” he says. He sets his phone back down on the table, then looks back up at her and gulps slightly. “So, uh, what you were saying, before they called. About – about needing some company.”

“Right,” she says, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the Formica tabletop. “I think you should get a dog.”

Sam blinks at her. “What?”

Her eyes are twinkling again. “A dog. I think you need a dog. You should go to a shelter, pick one out. They’re good company.”

Sam stares at her a minute, then laughs. “I don’t know. Dean’d throw a fit. He doesn’t really like dogs.”

She shrugs. “Dean doesn’t live there anymore, at least not most of the time. Get yourself a dog.” She pulls out her wallet to pay, and waves away Sam’s hand when he raises it in protest. “I said I’d buy you lunch. You wanna pay me back, get better with your signing.”

She winks at him and Sam feels his stomach flutter. “Uh, well, maybe you could give me a couple pointers sometime,” he says, then immediately cringes.

She stands from the table, the amused look back on her face. “Were you expecting that line to work?”

Sam shakes his head. “Uh, not really, no.”

She nods, but keeps her smile. “Yeah, swing and a miss. Try again next time, Sam. I’ll see you later,” she says, patting his shoulder and heading out the door.

Sam stays sitting at the table a while in a sort of daze. He’s busy staring at his empty coffee mug so he doesn’t notice the elderly couple from before walking past on their way out of the diner.

“Don’t worry, honey,” the old woman says, and Sam looks up. “She definitely likes you.”

He can feel his cheeks colouring. “Uh, thanks,” he says, embarrassed, and she smiles at him before throwing her arm across her companion’s back.

Sam watches them go, a soft smile creeping back onto his face.

 

 

 

 

Her name is Sadie. It’s the name she was given when she came to the shelter, but Sam kind of likes it anyway; it’s simple, classic. She’s some kind of mutt, probably about eight different breeds in her, but he thinks one of them’s definitely a German Shepherd. She’s pretty anxious, and it takes him a long time to coax her out of her pen at the shelter. The woman at the desk says she’d been brought in off the street by a couple teenagers, who found her near starving by an overpass on the I-80.

He buys her a new collar and a leash and brings her home in the cab of Cas’ truck.

She doesn’t like the winding metal staircase, so Sam circles back and takes her in through the garage door. He slowly walks her through the rooms, talking gently and keeping a soothing hand on her back. She sniffs a few things curiously, but mostly she sticks to his side.

He’s bought her a soft fluffy bed that’s at least three times bigger than it needs to be, and he sets it in one of the corners of the library. She lies down for a moment, but gets up as soon as Sam moves to sit at the tables. He tries a few more times to get her to stay put, but eventually he gives up and she curls up on the floor by his feet.

“Yeah, okay,” he smiles, patting her head gently. “We’ll get there.”

 

 

 

 

Eileen stops by to visit a week later. Sadie takes a long while to approach her, staying underneath the war room table (which has become her favourite hiding spot). Sam gives Eileen the big box of dog treats and eventually she’s coaxed out.

“You’ve only had her a week and already you’re spoiling her,” she says, crouching down.

“Looks like _you’re_ the one spoiling her right now,” Sam says as Eileen feeds Sadie another biscuit.

Sadie appears to have had enough attention, and slips away to crawl back under the metal table. Eileen peers after her, then stands.

“Did you put her bed under there?”

Sam raises his hands defensively. “She likes it down there! Besides, I’ve got another one for her in the library, and the kitchen, and in my room.”

She stares at him. “You bought her _four_ beds?”

Sam blushes. “Um, yes?”

She rolls her eyes, then jerks her head back to the staircase. “I’ve got to go, I’m just passing through on my way out to a job up in Minnesota.” She turns and walks back to the stairs.

She gets a few steps up before Sam reaches out a hand to tap her shoulder and she turns back around. “So, I saw this newspaper article from Salina a few days ago. Said a bunch of kids who were all in comas in the hospital suddenly woke up, good as new.”

She smiles down from where she’s standing a few steps above him. “Yeah, they all made full recoveries. Thanks for your help.”

He takes a step closer and looks up at her pointedly. “Strangest thing, though. The article was actually written the day _before_ you and I had lunch. So, unless some _other_ hunter came in and –”

He’s cut off mid-sentence by Eileen dipping her head down and kissing him full on the lips. He sways on his feet before reaching out to hold her waist, and her hands come up to his neck and for one long moment he’s basically drowning in her.

She pulls away and grins at him, the twinkle back in her eyes. _You think I can’t recognize a Shtriga’s M.O. a mile away?_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I Weekend at Bobby's-d you.  
> We will return to our regularly scheduled Dean and Cas next time.  
> Bright side is, you got Eileen, who is just the best.
> 
> Also you can tell it's SPN; even the *dog* has a tragic backstory.
> 
> Thanks for reading, friends.  
> I'm always a slut for kudos.  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG


	7. Track 7: Good Times, Bad Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is losing his mind.

In the days of my youth, I was told what it means to be a man,  
Now I've reached that age, I've tried to do all those things the best I can.  
No matter how I try, I find my way into the same old jam.

 

 

Dean is losing his mind.

It’s been three weeks. Twenty-one whole days since It happened. They’ve been going along mostly as usual – working, driving, fighting bad guys – but Dean is one awkward silence away from a full-on mental break.

Cas had stopped trying to talk about It after the first day or so. (Which was lucky; there are only so many times a guy can crank the radio or fake a text or loudly declaim his need to eat, sleep, and/or shower before it gets obvious. Or well, _more_ obvious.) Now it’s like they’re in some kind of holding pattern. Dean’s pretty actively avoiding any and all eye contact, but Cas keeps looking at him. Not looking, actually. It’s more like _studying_. Like Dean is some great big fucking Rubik’s cube and Cas can _solve_ him if he just stares hard enough.

God. One stupid goddamn sunset and all Dean’s well-crafted barriers break down like nothing. And how frickin’ cheesy is that anyway? He’s wishing angel time travel was still an option, so he could go back three weeks and never pull off the highway in the first place.

It’s simply getting to be too much. No matter how hard Dean tries to pretend everything’s normal, _It_ is hanging over them like a great big flashing neon sign, so when they wrap up a case involving a minor witch coven in Wisconsin, he casually suggests to Cas that they head home for a few days.

“Just for a bit. Sam said yesterday that Mom’s there; we can, you know, visit,” he finishes lamely as they pack up their motel room.

For some reason Cas looks oddly relieved at the suggestion. “Yeah, that sounds good,” he says. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen her, and Sam too.”

“Great,” Dean says quickly.

“Yeah, great,” Cas says back.

They stare at each other a moment.

“’Kay, well, let’s. . . get going then,” Dean says. Really, he’s relieved too. Maybe if they go home, take a day or two apart, they might regain some of their equilibrium. He grabs his duffel and walks out of the room, tossing over the keys. “It’s all you. I’m gonna conk out for a while.”

Cas nods his affirmative, and Dean settles into the passenger seat. They set off and Dean’s trying to let Baby’s engine lull him to sleep when a terrible thought occurs to him.

Cas wants to go home because he wants to stay there.

Dean’s wrecked everything, he’s fucked it all up, and now Cas doesn’t want to work with him like this anymore. They’ll get home and after a few days Dean will suggest they head back out and Cas will tell him that he can’t, that it’s too complicated. Cas’ll stay behind with Sam and quarterback the other hunters, or worse, he’ll fuck off to. . . to who knows where and probably find someone else, someone who isn’t a colossal basket case and either way Dean will be back out here on his own.

Dean blinks and takes a slow, steady breath in. He’s spiraling, he knows it, but when a guy has a habit of bailing on you it’s hard not to brace for impact. He shifts a little in the seat, forcing his eyes closed and hoping for a few fitful hours of sleep.

 

 

 

 

Something’s different about the bunker. Dean doesn’t know what it is, but he can tell the second they pull into the garage.

“You smell that?” he asks Cas as they head down the hallway.

Cas sniffs the air and tilts his head. “Maybe?”

They step out into the library and find Sam hunkered over one of the tables. He jumps when they appear, and gets quickly to his feet.

“Oh, hey guys! You um, you made good time, I wasn’t expecting you for another couple hours.” He’s smiling, but he’s also inching slightly to his left, and wearing an expression not unlike the time his pocketknife had accidentally put a rip in Baby’s front seat.

Dean squints at him suspiciously. “Hey Sam. What’s goin’ on?” He peers around Sam’s hulking shoulder and frowns when he spots what looks like a big sofa cushion on the floor. “What’s that doing there?”

Sam definitely looks nervous now. “Okay, listen, don’t freak out or anything.”

“Dean,” Cas says. Dean turns around and Cas is looking into the war room, his lips quirked up. Dean follows his gaze and then he sees it; there’s a dog underneath the war room table. It’s lying on its belly, ears down and eyes looking out warily.

Dean slowly turns back to Sam, who comes out from behind the table and walks across to the dog. Dean stares after him as he crouches down beside it.

“She’s pretty shy. She’s used to me now, and Mom, but go slow with her.”

Dean blinks. “You bought a dog?”

Sam looks up, glancing between him and Cas. “I adopted her. Couple weeks ago. Guys, meet Sadie.”

Dean blinks again, turns to make eye contact with Cas, then back to Sam. “You bought a _dog_?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

Cas sets his bag on a table and steps down into the war room, squatting beside Sam. “Hello, Sadie,” he says with a soft smile, and Jesus Christ, is _that_ the last thing Dean needs right now; Cas being all gentle and sweet with a dog.

He is so completely screwed.

Dean clears his throat. “Where’s Mom?” he asks.

Sam barely turns away from the dog. “Kitchen. You should probably get in there; I think she’s trying to cook.”

Dean drops his own bag beside Cas’ and strides right past them all down into the kitchen. Mary is at the counter, slicing up vegetables and dancing a little bit to the music coming from her headphones. Dean had bought her an iPod for Christmas and filled it with everything he could think of, including the greatest hits released since ’83. She still likes her old stuff though, and Dean can hear the tinny sounds of _Gallows Pole_ as he approaches.

He puts a hand on her shoulder to get her attention, and she whirls around, paring knife held high.

“Whoa whoa whoa, Mom! Hi!” he says, taking a step back.

She relaxes instantly, blowing out a breath. “Dean, I’m sorry!” she says, setting down the knife and pulling the headphones off her ears. “When did you get in?” She pulls him into a tight hug.

“Just now,” he says. “Sam said you’re trying to cook so I thought I’d stage an intervention.”

Mary smiles ruefully. “I thought I’d try a stir fry, you know, something simple, hard to screw up.”

He smiles at her. “Alright, sounds like a plan. How ‘bout you keep chopping, and I’ll do the actual stirring and frying.”

She smiles back. “Yes sir, Master Chef.” She gives him a salute and turns back to the cutting board.

For the first time in three weeks, Dean feels some of the tension leave his body.

 

 

 

 

Dean spends the next day in his room. He’s not hiding, he’s just giving himself some space. They’d all talked a bit over dinner last night, mostly about the cases they’d been working, but even with Mary and Sam there as buffers (plus the dog, scarfing down its own dinner in the corner and making a total mess of his kitchen), Dean was hyper-aware of Cas, and of every moment their eyes pointedly didn’t meet.

So he’s taking a little me-time. He’s trying to distract himself by watching tv on his laptop, but in the back of his mind he’s waiting for Cas to come in and announce that while these last few months had been good, he’s going to be staying here with Sam and the dog. He’s happy for Cas, really. A dog is a much less complicated best friend. The dog’s not going to fall in love with him and give him a stupid fucking clichéd sunset kiss, then spend the next three weeks moping around when things don’t go the way they do in the movies.

Just as Dean’s trying to course-correct this latest emotional tailspin, there’s a knock on his door. His heart seizes momentarily and god, this is it, but it’s Mary who pokes her head in.

“Hey, can I come in?” she asks.

Dean tries not to let the relief show on his face and he nods. “Yeah, sure.”

She steps inside and closes the door behind her. “Whatcha watching?” she asks, coming up to where he’s lounged out on his bed.

He stares down at the screen and realizes he hasn’t been paying attention at all. “I dunno. Some cop show, I think.”

“Scoot,” she says, and he shuffles over to give her room. She leans back beside him and makes a face at the screen. “There’s too many of these shows on nowadays.”

Dean shakes his head and chuckles. “Couldn’t agree more.”

She crosses her arms and looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “So, why’re we hiding?”

Dean looks at her briefly then turns back to the laptop. “We’re not,” he says.

“Really? Oh, okay.” She nods a little and turns her attention back to the screen too.

Dean shifts on the bed. “Great,” he says.

She’s silent another moment. “But, say we _were_ hiding, which we’re obviously not, because hiding would mean not leaving your room for almost an entire day, but say we _were_ –”

“Mom –”

“Would it maybe have something to do with Castiel?” she asks. “And the fact that for some reason you guys can barely look at each other right now?”

Dean brings a hand up to his eyes, then drags it down his face. “It’s fine,” he says.

She gives him a look. “Oh yeah, seems pretty fine.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, it’s not ‘fine,’ alright? It’s just kinda. . . complicated, I guess.”

“Yeah, it pretty much always is,” she nods and gives him a small smile. “You don’t need to tell me everything. But whatever’s going on, you really think avoiding him’s gonna fix it?”

“It’s been working for me so far,” he mumbles.

“Alright, well, this particular pity party is over, bucko,” she says, sliding off the bed. “Now, since instead of cooking for your elderly mother, you spent the day _not_ hiding, I went ahead and ordered takeout. So get off your butt and come eat some leftovers with me.”

“You know, you’re getting pretty good at this ‘motherly wisdom’ thing,” Dean laughs, standing as well.

“Right? Suck it, Carol Brady.”

 

 

 

 

After gorging themselves on Thai food, Mary heads to bed and Dean starts cleaning the kitchen with a scary intensity. He’s been trying to avoid going for the whiskey around his mother, so he’s sticking to beer and working out some of his anxieties on the grease-spattered stovetop. He’s scrubbing so hard that he fails to notice Cas’ presence until he speaks.

“Sam thinks there might be werewolves in New Hampshire,” he says.

Dean jumps violently and whirls around. Cas is leaning against the kitchen table, the dog beside him. It’s rubbing against his knees as Cas absently scratches behind its ear.

Dean gives himself a moment to calm his racing heart, then nods down to the dog. “Looks like it likes you.”

Cas looks at it with a bemused sort of smile. “I suppose so. I took her for a walk earlier; it was nice.” He pulls his hand away and she slinks to the dog bed in the corner, curling up to sleep.

Dean clears his throat. “So, werewolves?” he asks.

Cas nods. “In Nashua. We’ve only got a few days until the full moon, so we should leave in the morning. It’ll still take us a couple of days to get there.”

The gears in Dean’s head are moving a little slow. “Y-you wanna get back out there?” he stutters out.

Cas tilts his head, confused. “Well like I said, it’s almost the full moon. Unless you wanted a few more days here?” he asks. “We could tell Sam to give the case to someone else and take the next one instead.”

Some of the tightness Dean’s been holding in his chest melts away. “No, uh, that’s fine,” he says. “Werewolves, sounds good.” He turns back to the stove and lets out a long breath. Maybe they were going to get past this after all.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Cas says.

And just like that, the panic returns, squeezing tight across his ribs.

“For weeks, actually,” Cas continues. “Which is impressive, considering we basically live in a car.”

Dean swallows and turns around to face him, wide-eyed. “I haven’t,” he lies.

Cas looks at him a moment, then sighs. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, Dean, so I’ll make it quick. We can keep going on like it never happened, if that’s what you prefer. I don’t want to lose our friendship, so I will put aside my. . . feelings for you, and we can go back to the way things were.”

The previously slow-moving gears in Dean’s head now grind to a crunching halt. Cas is saying more words, he’s sure of it, but all Dean’s hearing right now is the faint buzzing of white noise.

“Your what?” he finally blurts.

Cas meets his eyes. “Like I said, our friendship is more important to –”

“Did you say your _feelings_?”

Cas blushes, and Dean’s heart is suddenly frantic. “My feelings are irrelevant. I just wanted you to know that I understand what that moment was. I was upset, and struggling, and you were just trying to make me feel better.”

“Whoa whoa, hold on a damn minute,” Dean starts, but Sam chooses that precise moment to come into the kitchen.

“Hey guys,” he says, but then stops when he picks up on the tension in the room. “What’s, um, what’s up?”

Cas stares at Dean another moment, then pulls his gaze away to Sam. “Nothing, Sam.” He turns back to Dean briefly. “I’m going to go pack for New Hampshire,” he says, then walks out.

Dean watches him go, mind still stuttering.

“Sorry,” Sam says. “I was just going to take Sadie out before I head to bed.” He slaps his thigh once and she springs up from her bed and pads to his side. “Are you guys okay?”

Dean’s eyes don’t leave the empty doorway. “I don’t know.”

 

 

 

 

Cas isn’t in his room packing. He’s not in the library or the gym or any of the other places he usually haunts. Dean has a moment of panic, thinking he’s just taken off, before he realizes there’s one place he hasn’t checked yet.

It takes him a few minutes of wandering before he finds the right storage room and heads up the narrow metal stairs to the rooftop. Cas is there, standing by the low wall at the roof’s edge and looking up at the sky. It’s started snowing; Cas had grabbed his jacket before heading up but Dean’s just in his usual plaid and t-shirt. He shivers and walks over, heart pounding.

“Figured I’d find you hiding up here,” he says, drawing level with Cas.

“Oh, _I’m_ the one hiding?”

“. . . ‘Kay, fair point,” Dean concedes. He swallows and tries to catch Cas’ eye. “Look, Cas, we’ve gotta clear a few things up.”

“I told you Dean, we can just forget it ever happened,” Cas starts, not looking at him.

“No, damnit, that’s not what I want. I don’t want to _forget_ it.”

“You’ve certainly been _acting_ like you do,” Cas shoots back.

Dean rolls his eyes and takes a step or two away. “Yeah, okay, I freaked out, Cas. Newsflash: I do that! I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, I don’t know how to handle this, this –” he waves a hand between the two of them and Cas finally turns to face him. “This _thing_!”

Cas raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything.

“And hey, by the way,” Dean steps towards him and points an accusatory finger. “It’s not like you kissed me back; you just sat there! The hell was I supposed to think?”

“I was surprised!” Cas says.

“Surprised?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says emphatically. “Surprised.”

Dean pauses for half a moment. “’Kay then, fair warning this time. I’m gonna do it again.”

Cas blinks. “What?”

Dean takes another step in and closes the distance. One hand fists the front of Cas’ shirt and the other hooks under his jaw to reel him in. The kiss lands squarely on Cas’ mouth – and again Cas freezes completely.

Horrified that he’s made another serious miscalculation, Dean draws back immediately, bringing his hands away. “Cas,” he mumbles. “Hey, if you don’t want this –”

Then Cas is on him, pulling him back in and finally, _finally_ kissing him, fierce and passionate and like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. His hands come up to Dean’s head, fingers running through his hair before curling into fists behind his ears. Dean grabs onto the lapels of Cas’ jacket and twists his hands into the fabric tightly. He lets out a small, involuntary moan and Cas uses the opportunity to push his tongue into Dean’s mouth.

Dean’s starting to feel more than a little light-headed, so he pulls back just enough to breathe.

Cas takes a breath in too and Dean stares as he licks his lips. “I said I was surprised,” Cas pants. “I didn’t say I didn’t want this.”

Dean can’t help it; he leans back in, slower this time. He kisses Cas soft and easy, letting it linger a moment. Then he breaks away gently and tilts his forehead down to rest against Cas.’

“Okay. Good,” he says quietly. “I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You think I do?”

Dean huffs out a breath against his lips. “This is probably going to be a disaster.”

Cas nods. “Probably.”

Dean smiles into the next kiss.

And the next.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, you thought that after a sunset kiss, I couldn't possibly get any sappier. Then WHAM: rooftop kiss in the snow. 
> 
> Yes, this chapter is short. The next one's hella long though, so hopefully you'll be appeased. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, friends.  
> I'm always a slut for kudos.  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG


	8. Track 8: Immigrant Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Heaven wants my help?” 
> 
> “Yes,” she says. “That is all we want, Castiel, just your help. I would like to speak of this in person. If you would please meet me tomorrow, there is a park in Middleburgh, New York. You may bring whomever you wish. I will be alone, you have my word.”
> 
> Castiel looks at Dean, his heart sinking lower. “And why should I do this?”
> 
> “Because, Castiel, you may have turned your back on your brothers and sisters, but you will not turn your back when there are human lives in danger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got another long one for ya, folks. Enjoy.

We come from the land of the ice and snow,  
From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow.  
  
How soft your fields so green. Can whisper tales of gore.  
Of how we calmed the tides of war. We are your overlords.

 

 

Almost every night, Castiel has bad dreams. Sometimes they’re full of black oil or fire or Lucifer’s grinning face, and he wakes up gasping. Sometimes he’s all alone in the darkness, calling out into the void while a cold feeling grips his heart. Sometimes the bad dreams are disguised as good dreams; they lure him in with promises of love and safety and happiness and then in an instant they turn sour and poisonous. Castiel has learned not to trust good dreams.

His life right now, it _feels_ like a good dream.

In the last few days, Dean has been throwing him happy smiles and flirtatious comments. He has touched Castiel’s face and his chest. In Nashua, after Dean had taken down the last remaining werewolf, he had pulled Castiel up from where he’d been knocked to the ground and kissed his mouth. It was deep and desperate, and Castiel had kissed him back until he felt a hunger burning low in his stomach.

It is what Castiel never thought he could have, and as much as he wishes otherwise, he’s having a hard time trusting it.

He’s letting Dean take the lead, trying not to move too quickly or do too much, and all the while part of him is certain he’s going to wake up any minute.

They had left Nashua last night and started back west with no particular destination in mind, stopping in the early hours of the morning at a motel just past Springfield, Massachusetts. Dean had smiled and kissed him goodnight, and Castiel had kissed him back and lain down to try and rest for a few hours.

He apparently had fallen asleep at some point, because when Castiel opens his eyes next it’s almost 11:00am and he can hear the shower running. He throws back his covers and dresses, then checks his phone. Sam hasn’t sent them any new cases yet, so perhaps he and Dean will flip through some newspapers when they go out for breakfast.

Dean comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He gives Castiel a crooked smile. “Mornin,’” he says, taking a few steps toward him. “Looks like you got a few hours in.”

Castiel nods. “Yes, it seems so.” Dean has come right up into his space, and Castiel swallows nervously. “There’s nothing from Sam; do you want to pack up here and find somewhere for breakfast?”

Dean nods, eyes not leaving his. Castiel pulls his gaze away and starts to inch around him, heading to the bathroom, but he’s stopped by a slight tugging at his hips. He looks down to find that Dean has hooked a finger in one of his belt loops. Castiel looks back up at him.

Dean leans in slightly, and Castiel is momentarily distracted by the spicy scent of his shampoo. “You’re allowed to touch me, Cas,” he says quietly.

Castiel’s eyes drop to Dean’s lips, and he decides for a moment to ignore the part of him urging caution. He raises a palm to Dean’s chest, then tilts his head up and kisses him. Dean’s lips move with his, and after a moment his tongue darts out, teasing. Castiel feels the hunger start to burn again, so he uses the hand on Dean’s chest to push him backwards. Dean lets him, walking back until he stumbles into the table by the window. Castiel keeps stepping forwards, and Dean is forced down to sit on the edge.

“Whoa,” Dean says, breaking his lips away and looking up at Castiel. He gives him a breathless grin. “And you are _definitely_ allowed to do that.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, just moves back in to kiss him again, bringing his hand to Dean’s cheek to angle his head up. Then Dean parts his knees and grips Castiel’s hips, pulling him in close.

Dean is _intoxicating_ , and the hunger starts to burn hotter in Castiel’s stomach. He sinks forward even more, pressing his tongue into Dean’s mouth, tasting him.

It’s at that moment his phone rings. Castiel ignores it, but Dean leans his head slightly away.

“You gonna get that, Cas?” he murmurs against Castiel’s lips. Castiel then feels Dean draw a slow hand up the front of his thigh. His arousal flares then, as Dean pulls the buzzing phone out of Castiel’s front pocket and holds it up between them.

Castiel makes the mistake of pulling back enough to take in Dean’s appearance; his hair is messy, his eyes are blown wide, and his lips are swollen and shiny. Castiel swallows and tries to steady his breathing, and it takes every ounce of self-control he has to take a step out from the vee of Dean’s legs.

He must look similarly disheveled, because Dean smirks at him when he hands over the phone.

Castiel clears his throat and answers it. “Hello?” he asks, his voice rough.

“Castiel?”

Castiel frowns; he hadn’t recognized the number on the caller ID and the voice is unfamiliar. “Who is this?”

“My name is Ruth. I don’t know if you remember me; we only met once, a very long time ago,” she says.

A sinking feeling hits Castiel’s chest. This is the first contact he’s had with Heaven since he gave up his grace. He glances over at Dean, whose playful smirk instantly changes to a look of concern when he sees Castiel’s face.

“How did you get this number?” Castiel asks. “I’m warded against Heaven.”

“You may be warded, but you’re not that difficult to find if you know where to look,” she says. “You’re with the Winchesters, and they are easy enough to track.”

Castiel grimaces. “What is it you want?” he asks.

Ruth is silent for a moment before she speaks. “There is a matter which has become of some concern, and we would like to enlist your help in dealing with it.”

“We?” Castiel says. “Heaven wants my help?”

“Yes,” she says. “That is all we want, Castiel, just your help. I would like to speak of this in person. If you would please meet me tomorrow, there is a park in Middleburgh, New York. You may bring whomever you wish. I will be alone, you have my word.”

Castiel looks at Dean, his heart sinking lower. “And why should I do this?”

“Because, Castiel, you may have turned your back on your brothers and sisters, but you will not turn your back when there are human lives in danger.”

 

 

 

 

“I don’t like this, man.” Dean is pacing, feet kicking through the light dusting of snow on the ground. “We’re too exposed out here. Plus it’s freezing.”

Castiel looks around the park. The cold has kept most people away, but there are some children playing by the swing set and a young couple with styrofoam coffee cups sitting at a picnic bench. “I don’t think she’ll try anything here, Dean.”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong, I hope you’re right,” Dean says, stamping his feet a little to warm them. “But when was the last time an angel called you and just wanted to talk?”

Castiel grimaces, and has to concede the point. “She wants to talk, but it doesn’t mean we have to listen.”

Dean huffs, then his eyes squint at something behind Castiel. “That her?”

Castiel turns to see a woman approaching from the road. She’s mid-thirties, with light hair twisted back into a tight bun. She’s wearing a grey suit and no overcoat, despite the temperature. Castiel nods to Dean and they both face her.

“Castiel,” she greets him, coming to a stop a few feet away.

“Ruth,” he responds, inclining his head slightly.

There’s a moment of silence as she runs appraising eyes over him.

“Dean,” says Dean, waving his hand sarcastically.

Castiel fights a smile. “Say what you came here to say, Ruth. I am not at Heaven’s beck and call.”

Ruth’s eyes flick briefly to Dean and then back again. “That much is obvious. You have changed a great deal, Castiel.”

“Spare me,” Castiel cuts in. “If this is the reason you wanted me here, then we’ll just leave.”

“We wanted you here because we require your help,” she says. “There is a situation on Earth that demands attention, but we are unable to step in.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at her. “What situation?”

She looks again between him and Dean. “There is an angel living on Earth. His name is Simiel. Do you know him?”

Castiel nods. “Not well, but some. He served under me for a time.”

“He takes orders no more, Castiel. Simiel left Heaven more than a year ago, and we let him. But it has come to our attention recently that he has started gathering human followers for himself.”

“Whoa, hang on,” Dean says. “You’ve got an angel down here playing Jim Jones?”

Ruth looks at Dean uncomprehendingly, and he rolls his eyes. “A cult. There’s an angel living on Earth and he’s formed himself a cult.”

She nods, and turns back to Castiel. “Yes, that is what you would call it. He has revealed himself as an angel, demonstrating his powers to convince many followers. I’m sure you can prove my story,” she nods to Dean. “This has started to gain human attention as well. He has set up some kind of compound and there are reports of people going missing in the area. It’s a few hours from here, in Nazareth, Pennsylvania.”

“Of course it is,” Dean says.

Castiel stares back at her. “Why are you telling us this? If this is all true then why haven’t you gone in and dealt with him yourselves? Why would you need us?”

Ruth looks uncomfortable and she shifts her weight. “The events of recent years have indicated to many in Heaven that some changes are necessary. In an attempt to regain some of the order that has been lost –” she gives Castiel a significant look, “– we have renewed our policy of non-interference.”

Dean scoffs. “That’s convenient. You guys dick around down here for years, doing whatever the hell you want, but then when one of your own guys goes off the reservation, it’s suddenly all ‘hands-off.’”

Ruth looks at him coolly. “I don’t think _you_ have much ground to stand on with that argument, Dean Winchester. How much of Heaven’s chaos and disorder are _you_ responsible for?” Her eyes slide back to Castiel. “Indirectly or otherwise.”

Dean glances at Castiel, and for a moment there’s guilt in his eyes.

Ruth continues without waiting for Dean’s response. “In any case, it’s not just politics at play here. Simiel has put up Enochian warding around his compound. We could not enter it even if we wanted to.”

Castiel looks away, considering. “And how is coming to us not considered interference?” he asks.

“As I said, there are politics,” she says. “Many – in fact most – did not want to resort to asking for your assistance. But we need you; someone with your knowledge and experience, but who is outside the fold.”

Castiel looks at Dean. He has no real ties to Heaven, not anymore. They could walk away from this, find a simple monster hunt instead. But Dean looks back at him, and there’s something knowing in his eyes. He nods once.

Castiel turns back to Ruth. “We will do what we can.”

She nods at him. “Thank you, Castiel.”

He and Dean turn from her to start walking back to the car, but she calls out after them.

“Castiel. If you succeed, you will have done Heaven a great service. There are many who would –”

“I no longer have any interest in serving Heaven, Ruth,” Castiel turns back around. “I would think that I have made my choices –” he meets Deans eyes briefly, “– and my _loyalties_ perfectly clear by now.”

She looks for a moment as though he’d slapped her. “Yes,” she finally says with a tight-lipped smile. “I believe you have.” Then she spins on her heel and walks away.

Castiel turns around and walks back to the car, not looking at Dean. They slide into the front seat, and Castiel waits for Dean to start the engine. When he doesn’t, Castiel turns to find Dean staring down at his hands and fidgeting with the keys.

“What is it?” Castiel asks.

Dean looks up at him, and for some reason there’s a sad smile on his face. “Nothing,” he says. Then he leans across the space between them and presses a kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth. It’s brief, over in just a moment, then Dean leans back to his own side and starts the car.

 

 

 

 

They’d switched places after stopping for lunch, and Dean’s skimming files on the laptop as they drive.

“Well, she wasn’t wrong. There’s articles and half a dozen missing persons reports from Nazareth, starting about eight months ago,” Dean says. “Lots more people who haven’t officially reported anyone missing, but are sure they’re holed up with this Simiel guy.”

Castiel nods, but keeps his eyes on the road. Nazareth is only a couple hundred miles away, but the roads are icy so they’re taking it slow. “What have the police done?”

Dean shakes his head. “There’s usually not a lot they can do in these kinds of situations. One of the reasons cults are so dangerous. Unless cops or feds can prove they’ve got guns or drugs or something, they’re technically not breaking any laws.”

“I doubt they have contraband of any kind,” Castiel says. “An angel would have no need.”

“You said you knew this guy, right? Any idea what’s got him going Manson?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’ve met him, but I wouldn’t say I know him that well. He was one of several hundred angels I commanded. Besides, I don’t think any insights I might have would explain this. It’s been a long time, and people change.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment, and it seems as though he’s building to saying something. “So, what’s the plan here, Cas?” he finally asks, closing the laptop lid. “I mean, setting aside the fact that he’s all juiced up and has a compound that’s probably heavily guarded with followers, what are we gonna do with him?”

“I don’t want to kill him,” Castiel says.

Dean looks at him, then nods. “I know.”

Castiel keeps his eyes pointed out the front windshield. “I’ve killed too many angels, Dean. I can’t kill another.” He smiles bitterly. “Especially not one I have so much in common with.”

Dean furrows his brow. “The hell are you talking about?”

Castiel turns briefly from the road and throws Dean a look. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve even used the word ‘cult’ about me before.”

Dean stares at him blankly a moment, then Castiel sees the memory dawn on him. “Okay, pump the breaks there. One, I was being a jackass when I said that. B, this is totally different. Any time you’ve had people following you, they were angels, not humans, and it was because you were fighting for something and needed the backup.” He looks away for a moment. “However things turned out in the end, you’ve never _wanted_ the power you had, not like that.” Dean faces him again and goes on fiercely. “You’re not him, Cas, you’re not this Simiel guy. You’re better than him.”

Castiel finds it difficult to breathe for a moment and he clutches the wheel tightly.

He will never understand what it is he’s done that earns him Dean’s forgiveness time and again, but for once he decides not to fight it. Dean is here, offering trust and understanding and companionship, and all Castiel wants to express is his gratitude.

“I want to kiss you right now,” is what comes out instead.

Castiel blushes, before he remembers that he doesn’t really have to anymore. He chances a glance at Dean, who looks stunned for a moment before a broad grin splits his face.

“Later,” Dean says, still smiling. “When we’re not going fifty miles an hour down snowy backroads.”

“Right,” Castiel says, suddenly conscious of the car drifting a little too close to the shoulder. He pulls the wheel back to the left and clears his throat. “So, um, the plan,” he says. “I want to try to talk to him. Hannah and I brought several angels back to Heaven who would rather have stayed here. Perhaps he can be convinced to return.”

“’Kay, maybe,” Dean says slowly. “Hopefully. But if that doesn’t work?”

Castiel purses his lips, thinking. “Holy oil, the Enochian handcuffs. We trap him and deliver him back to Ruth.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, no problem. Like trying to trap a hurricane with a butterfly net, right?”

Castiel tilts up his mouth at the familiar phrase. “No, it’s harder.”

 

 

 

 

Castiel pulls them into the parking lot of the Nazareth Police Station a few hours later. He takes the keys out of the ignition and looks sideways just in time to see Dean surge across the front seat and pull him into a searing kiss. Castiel lets out a startled gasp, then reflexively brings his hand up to cradle Dean’s face.

After a moment Dean breaks away and grins at him. “What? You said you wanted to.” He winks then slides out of the car, and Castiel is left to hurry after him.

They change into their suits in the McDonalds bathroom across the street, then climb the steps into the police station. The desk officer directs them to a partitioned cubicle near the back of the bullpen, and as they make their way across the room Castiel can feel eyes on the back of his head. He turns back, curious, but the young man at the front desk hurriedly averts his eyes.

The captain is an older woman with short, steel-grey hair, and when she shakes Castiel’s hand her grip is firm.

“Captain Seguro,” she says. “Gotta say, I’m glad to see the feds finally taking an interest in this. That man is a more serious problem than most people around here like to believe.” She gestures to the chairs in front of her desk and they all sit.

“That’s our understanding too, Captain,” Dean says. “We’re here on a fact-finding mission; hopefully we find enough to get the brass in Washington to send in some real help for you.”

She nods gratefully. “Anything I can do.”

“When did he first come to your attention?” Castiel asks.

“Almost a year ago now, I think. A couple reports came in about a crowd gathering in front of this church downtown. I send a couple men down, try to get an idea what’s going on. They come back telling me all about this man performing miracles.”

“Miracles?” Dean asks.

She nods. “They said he healed the sick, and that light was shining out from his eyes. Said he was reading peoples’ minds. Some folks said he’d come to them in their dreams the night before. Bunch of parlour tricks and nonsense, of course, but people were eating it up.”

“Yes, I imagine they were,” Castiel says quietly. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean briefly turn to look at him. “Did you talk to him at all?”

“My officers did; they tried to get the crowd to disperse, told the man it was a disturbance of the peace. But he told them that he was an angel and he was here to deliver the word of the Lord.”

“An angel?” Dean says. “Really.”

Seguro nods. “Can you believe it? Although in a town called Nazareth, I don’t know why anyone’s surprised.” She reaches to a filing cabinet behind her. “He put on little shows like that a few more times, then he started getting serious.” She hands Castiel a thick file folder. “Mr. ‘Simiel,’ real name Christopher Kowalska, bought himself an old farmstead outside of town. He holds church services in the barn every Sunday, gets about two hundred regular attendees. But then there’s his little inner circle. There’s only a couple dozen of them, mostly kids in their twenties, and they live with him in another building on the property. Built it themselves too, as I understand it.”

“Have you gone in?” Dean asks, taking the file from Castiel.

“I’ve sent officers to the services, those are open to the public. But there’s nothing extra fishy going on there, just a bunch of bible-thumping. He doesn’t bust out his flashy ‘miracles’ at those anymore.”

“What about the house?” Castiel asks.

“We tried,” the captain says. “But it’s private property and we don’t have cause for a warrant.”

Castiel frowns. “What about the missing people?”

She shakes her head, frustrated. “This guy’s careful; we’ve never found any kind of hard evidence that’s where they disappeared to.” She rubs a hand across her mouth and casts her eyes down. “It’s tough, I don’t mind telling you. I get parents coming in here, begging me to do something, that man’s got their babies in there. But my hands are tied.” She looks up at them. “That’s why I’m glad the feds are getting involved. Whatever you boys need, I’m here to help.”

Dean gestures with the file. “Can we keep this?”

“Please,” Seguro nods. “There’s more than that as well; ask the desk officer and he’ll get you anything else you need.”

“Thank you, Captain. We’ll be in touch,” Castiel says, shaking her hand again. He and Dean walk back across the bullpen and stop at the front desk again.

“Can I help you?” the officer asks, looking between the two of them nervously.

Dean seems to sense his unease. “Hey there, Officer. . .” he glances down at the man’s name tag, “. . . Nixon. Your captain said you’d be able to get us the rest of the files on a man going by the name ‘Simiel,’” he says and holds out his card. “Think you could have them emailed here?”

“Of course,” Nixon says. He takes the card quickly and turns to focus on his computer.

Dean watches him, a little puzzled, and Castiel catches Dean’s eye before looking back at the officer.

“So, Officer Nixon,” Castiel starts. “Have you seen this Simiel before?”

Nixon’s hands freeze on the keyboard and he darts wary eyes up to Castiel. “Yeah, I mean, he’s pretty famous around here, you know?”

Castiel nods. “Yes. The captain says that he performs miracles.”

Nixon’s expression shutters off. “Well, that’s what people say. If you believe in that sort of thing,” he says.

Dean looks at Nixon carefully. “And do you? Believe in that sort of thing?”

“Do you?” he scoffs.

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know, I’ve seen some pretty strange stuff.”

“Well, then you’re just as crazy as Simiel is,” Nixon says. “Those files should be in your inbox in a minute. Was there anything else?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, thank you Officer. We have all that we need.” He turns and walks out of the station and down the steps, Dean right behind him.

“Okay, well, _somebody’s_ a member of the Simiel fanclub,” Dean says as they climb into the car. “‘Kowalska,’ you figure that was his vessel’s name?”

Castiel nods. “He’d need real identification if he was buying himself property.”

“Alright, what now?” Dean asks. “The captain didn’t give us too much we didn’t already know.”

“We could wait until Sunday, go in with the church crowd,” Castiel suggests.

Dean shakes his head. “It’s Tuesday; I don’t want to wait around a week on this.” He pauses, thinking for a moment. “Would he recognize you?”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him since I’ve taken this vessel, so I should look like an ordinary human to him.”

“Okay, so we go in now, tell him we want to join the flock.”

“You really think that’ll work? You think he’ll just take two people off the street for his ‘inner circle’?” Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs. “We won’t know until we try. Besides, you got a better idea?”

 

 

 

 

They quickly change out of their suits, then drive out to the farm. The snow-covered driveway forks a ways in; the left road leads to an old wooden barn and the right to a sprawling house, recently constructed. There’s a wire fence that extends around the house on all sides, and a large metal gate cuts across the path. There are two men in heavy canvas jackets standing at attention just inside the gate, and Castiel can see two more figures in the distance patrolling the perimeter.

Dean brings the car to a stop and squints out at the guards. “They’re armed,” he says.

Castiel follows his gaze, and he sees long sheaths strapped to each of their thighs. “Knives,” he says.

“Angel blades, you think?”

“Probably not real ones,” Castiel says. “I doubt he’d arm his followers with something that could be used against him. However, it’s still a problem.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“It means he’s been training them. It means they know how to fight like an angel.”

Dean smirks. “So do you.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “This _also_ means we’ll likely be searched if we try to go in armed ourselves.”

Dean’s cocky smile falters. “Right. Think we can at least smuggle in the oil and the handcuffs?”

“We can try. It’s either that or wait until dark and try to sneak in somewhere.”

Dean shakes his head. “If he’s got warding to hide himself from the God Squad, you can bet he’s got warning bells up all around too.” He indicates the figures along the fence. “Perimeter’s not manned well enough right now to be effective. They’re probably just for show.”

Castiel grimaces. “Alright then, we stick to the plan.” He reaches into the back seat and pulls their duffelbags forward. They’d poured out some holy oil into regular flasks, and they each take one. Dean shoves the Enochian handcuffs down into a spare pair of boots, then zips up his bag. He nods to Castiel and they both climb out of the car.

“Hello,” Castiel greets the guards as they come to the gate, boots crunching in the snow.

Both guards take a step forward and one raises out a hand to halt their approach. “Can we help you?” he asks. He looks no older than twenty or twenty-one.

“We have heard stories about the angel, Simiel,” Castiel says. “We would like to meet him, and to learn from him. We would be honoured to look upon the face of an angel.”

The other guard takes another step forward. “Really, is that so?” He turns to Dean.

“Yes,” Dean says. “We would give anything to meet a real angel.”

The guards look at each other, then back out through the metal gate.

“That’s interesting,” the first guard says. “Because we received word a few hours ago that two men – federal agents, in fact – were in town today asking questions about Simiel.”

“Really?” Dean asks.

The guard cocks his head, narrowing his eyes at them both. “These men, they seemed to think Simiel was dangerous, and wished him harm. We, of course, would never allow that to happen.”

“Well, so much for the plan,” Dean says under his breath.

“Leave now, Agents,” the guard says. “Unless you have a warrant, this is private property and you are not welcome here.” They both take another step forward, and their hands drift down to hover over the hilts of their weapons.

Castiel feels Dean tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. “Sure thing, fellas, we’re outta here,” he says to them. Castiel lets Dean drag him a few steps away. “We’ll figure something else out, man,” he says lowly.

Castiel stops and turns back to the guards. “Tell Simiel that Castiel is here to speak with him,” he says loudly.

“Cas –” Dean starts, agitation in his voice.

“Tell him,” Castiel repeats firmly. “He will want to see me.”

The guard squints at him, then turns to his companion. The second man nods and jerks his head to the house. “Go.”

The guard gives them another long, suspicious look, then walks off.

Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s arm. “Bad idea, Cas,” he mutters.

Castiel shrugs and finds his eyes. “A Winchester classic.”

Dean rolls his eyes, then gives him a half-smile. “Touché.”

The guard comes back out of the house a minute later. He steps up to speak quietly to the other guard, then moves forward to unlock the gate. “You can go in,” he says, then holds out his hand. “Your bags.”

“It’s fine, we got ‘em,” Dean tries, but the guard steps in front to block his path. Dean glares, then reluctantly hands over his duffel.

Castiel gives him his own bag as well, then tries to walk forward.

The guard doesn’t move. “Arms out,” he says.

“Oh, come on,” Dean says, but the second guard comes up to pat them both down. He finishes after a moment then steps back. “Satisfied?” Dean asks.

The guard glares, but jerks his head to the house. Castiel exchanges a brief look with Dean before leading the way through the fence.

Another follower, a young woman, appears at the front door as they climb the stairs, and she steps back to let them enter. “Welcome,” she says. “Simiel is very pleased you have come. This way.”

She guides them down a long hallway. Castiel can see a large kitchen as they pass, and an archway that leads to another hallway full of what could be dormitories. There are people scattered around, all watching curiously as Castiel and Dean move through the hall.

They come out into a wide common area. Most of Simiel’s followers are here, clustered in groups on the ground. There are men and women both, and all look no more than thirty years old. They are all dressed in civilian clothes, but each has a long knife strapped to their side.

Simiel is at the opposite end of the room, sitting in a high-backed chair set on a raised dais. It’s just an ordinary chair, but the way Simiel sits, it may as well be a throne. He rises when they enter, smiling broadly and clasping his hands together. His vessel is around forty years old; his hair is short and dark, and grey shows at his temples and in the light scruff of his beard.

“Brother! How incredible it is to have you here with us,” he says. He gestures to the men and women sitting on the ground. “Friends, we are honoured this day. This is the venerable Castiel, a warrior of unparalleled skill and cunning.” He takes a few steps toward them and studies Castiel’s face. “So it’s true,” he frowns. “You’re human.”

“I am,” Castiel says, meeting his eyes. “Hello, Simiel. It has been a very long time.”

Simiel smiles again. “It _has_ , old friend. Much has changed.”

“For both of us,” Castiel says, eyes roving to the crowd of people on the floor. They are all staring up at the two of them, enraptured. “I am human now, and you have aspired to Godhood.”

The benign smile flickers on Simiel’s face. “I am an angel, Castiel. A holy warrior of God. I have merely claimed my place here on Earth.”

Dean steps forward. “This is not your _place_ ,” he says. “Jeez, when will you flying dickbags ever get a grip on your own damn egos?”

Castiel grimaces, and Simiel looks at Dean as though he’d only just noticed him. His eyes scan up and down curiously. “You are a Winchester, aren’t you? Your. . . exploits are well known also.”

“Dean, nice to meet you,” Dean says. “And Cas is right. You can’t play God.”

“I am not _playing_ , Dean. My friends here, they have seen my power. They know what I am.”

Castiel shakes his head. “This is not how it is meant to be, Simiel. We have come here to bring you back to Heaven.” There is a shifting of movement around the room. The followers on the ground are tensing; backs straightening and eyes growing wary. Those standing around the edges of the room move forward slightly, and their hands drop to the knives at their sides. Castiel finds Simiel’s eyes and steps forward. “Come, talk with me in private.”

Simiel tilts his head, puzzled. “You, Castiel? _You_ of all angels are here to bring me back?”

“I am here to help you, Simiel. And to help these people,” he nods to the followers in the room. “This is not your place.”

“How strange that you say that,” Simiel says. “When it is your example I follow here, brother.”

Castiel feels the familiar sinking sensation in his chest.

Simiel turns away, frowning slightly. “I do not understand, Castiel. You more than anyone know what is to be gained by staying here, among them. I have power here. _Real_ power. And I use that power to help those who love me,” he indicates his followers, “and to protect us from those who could cause us harm. I had hoped that in coming here, you sought to join me.” He steps back towards Castiel, almost predatory. “We could do much together, Castiel. Any angel is stronger with you by his side. And all the more dangerous with you as his enemy.” His voice is soft, but the threat underneath it is clear.

“Talk with me,” Castiel repeats, but Simiel shakes his head and moves back from him again, returning to his chair on the dais.

“I will not be persuaded to leave, Castiel. This is my home now. I have chosen Earth, just as you have,” he inclines his head. “And I’m afraid any attempts you make to bring me back by force will be unsuccessful.” He gives a swift nod then, and in an instant four followers spring forward, grabbing Dean and Castiel by the arms before either of them can react. Castiel feels a sharp kick to the back of his knees, and he’s forced down with a grunt of pain.

Dean comes down beside him a moment after. “Son of a _bitch_ ,” he bites out.

The woman who had escorted them through the house earlier appears, carrying their duffelbags. “They had these with them, Simiel,” she says, handing them over and keeping her eyes on the floor.

“Thank you, Sarah,” he says. She dumps the bags upside down, spilling out their clothes and other supplies. The flasks rattle to the ground, and the handcuffs slip out of Dean’s boots to slide across the floor. Simiel stands and rifles through the piles, pulling out one of the flasks. He unscrews the top and sniffs it. “Holy oil? And here,” he reaches for the handcuffs, examining the runes etched into the metal. “I see you wanted more than a conversation, Castiel. It appears Eric was right about you.” He inclines his head across the room, and Castiel notices for the first time Officer Nixon standing by the far wall. Simiel walks towards him, patting his shoulder in an almost fatherly fashion. “Thank you, Eric. You have served me, served _all of us_ well today.”

Nixon looks briefly into Simiel’s eyes, but averts his gaze quickly. “Thank you, Simiel,” he says quietly.

Dean struggles for a moment against the arms holding him down. “This is power, is it? They’re afraid of you.”

Simiel moves towards Dean. “Fear is a powerful tool, Dean. It has served me well in my time here. Humans are weak, fragile things. They crave subjugation. And they need rules, and orders.” He nods once, and one of Dean’s captors throws out a brutal fist, catching him across the mouth. He lets out a cry of pain and Castiel winces.

Dean looks back up at Simiel, defiant, and spits blood to the ground at his feet. “You don’t have real power if it’s all built on fear.”

“Fear is a tool, but it is not my only one. I can be benevolent as well.” He extends his hand to Dean’s forehead, two fingers out. Dean tries to jerk his head away, but Simiel’s touch lands. There is a glow of grace, and the cut disappears from Dean’s mouth.

Simiel smiles softly at Dean, who only glares back at him. “What I ask of my followers is uncomplicated. Devotion, loyalty, love. These are some of humanity’s more admirable qualities, are they not?” he asks Castiel, moving to stand in front of him. “Things which you have experienced in your time on Earth, Castiel, I am sure.”

“I have indeed,” Castiel nods. “But never like this, Simiel. Never under threat. How can you not understand that?”

“I understand much, Castiel,” he says. “Far more than you give me credit for.” His eyes slide over to Dean before he straightens up and addresses the room. “But perhaps a demonstration, then? Of what ‘real power’ is?” He moves back to sit in his chair and waves over one of his guards. He speaks to him quietly, then the guard disappears.

Castiel looks sideways to Dean, who meets his eyes with a grimace. Then the men holding Castiel jerk his arms roughly and he faces forward again. Simiel looks between the two of them curiously.

There are the sounds of struggling then, and the guard reappears, dragging a middle-aged woman behind him on a thick chain. Her face is swollen and bloody, and her hair lies lank across her eyes. She’s fighting feebly against her restraints, and her cheeks are wet with tears.

The guard drags her forward and stops in front of the throne. She whimpers slightly and Simiel smiles down at her. “Hello again, Suzanne.”

“P-please, sir, please let me see him. Just tell me he’s okay,” she whispers.

Simiel flicks his eyes to the guard, who then strikes her hard across the face.

“Hey!” Dean yells, and both he and Castiel struggle to pull away from their captors.

Simiel turns his eyes across to them, and suddenly Castiel can hear the unmistakable sounds of blades being drawn. A moment later a knife point comes to rest at his neck, and both he and Dean still instantly.

“What is this, Simiel?” Castiel asks, ignoring the blade that prods at his throat. “What have you done to this woman?”

Simiel grins. “That’s just it, brother. This is not my doing. My friends here, this is their work. They know the importance of our security, our lives here.”

“Please,” the woman sobs. “I want to see my son.”

Simiel ignores her this time, speaking directly to Castiel. “Suzanne crossed our border some months ago. She believed her son was one of my followers, and wished to persuade him to return home. My guards apprehended her.”

“You bastard,” Dean growls. “You’ve been keeping her like this for months?”

“I have,” Simiel says pleasantly. “Her presence has provided my friends some entertainment, and a means to practice some of their. . . training.”

Revulsion rises up in Castiel’s throat. “You are an _angel_ , Simiel! This is monstrous, and it is not what we were meant for.”

Simiel considers him thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’re right. I doubt she will be of any further use.” He turns his attention back to her, and Castiel watches with horror as he gives the guard one simple nod.

“ _No!_ ” he cries, but it’s too late.

Suzanne screams as the dagger comes up to her neck.

Castiel closes his eyes to the torrent of blood that streams from her throat, and her body thuds to the ground a moment later.

Dean is hollering curses and abuse, but he silences again when the blade at his throat presses harder and they are forced back up to their feet.

Simiel moves up to the guard and pats his arm. “Thank you, Nicholas,” he says softly. Then he crosses the room and stands right in Castiel’s face. “ _That_ , old friend, is real power.”

 

 

 

 

Simiel’s guards force them down into the cellar. It’s not a real prison cell, but there is a set of manacles hanging from one wall. They’re covered in dried blood, and Castiel tries not to look at them.

Dean is pacing again, but Castiel sits with his back to the wall, shivering slightly.

“That sick son of a bitch,” Dean says. “What the hell did he do to all of them? Is it mind control?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, not in the way you’re thinking. Angels can’t influence humans, not like that.”

“So just regular cult-leader mind control then,” Dean says. “I think that’s worse.”

Castiel huffs a little in agreement, then scrubs a hand down his face. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean furrows his brow. “What for?”

“I shouldn’t have met with Ruth. Shouldn’t have agreed to do this. And I shouldn’t have come barging in here without a real plan.”

Dean stops his pacing and comes to sit down beside him. “ _You_ didn’t decide anything. _We_ did. And since when do we ever have a real plan?” He shifts himself slightly, pressing their shoulders together, and Castiel leans into the warmth of his body. “We would’ve come anyway. Simiel’s bad news, and he needs to be stopped. Question now is how.”

Castiel tilts his head back, thunking it on the stone wall of the cellar. “He took the oil, and the handcuffs. He’ll have destroyed them both by now.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment. “Think he’ll have his angel blade stashed somewhere?”

Castiel closes his eyes. He supposes it was always going to come to this. “Probably.”

“I don’t know how we can trap him, man, not now. And he can’t be left alive, not with what he’s doing here.”

Castiel lets out a quiet sigh. “I know.”

“It doesn’t have to be you, Cas,” Dean says quietly. “Let me.”

Castiel turns to look at him. The cellar is mostly dark, but he can see Dean’s eyes searching his face.

“You were right, man. You shouldn’t have to kill another one of your brothers. So let me do it.” He pauses, and his eyes move to look around the cellar. “I mean, I don’t know how we get the blade, or how we’re gonna get out of here,” he says.

“We’ll figure it out,” Castiel says. Dean turns back to meet his eyes. “Thank you, Dean.” He reaches out and finds Dean’s hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tightly.

Dean inhales a breath, then nods at him. “Yeah.” He grips Castiel’s hand and they sit in the darkness.

 

 

 

 

It’s been several hours. Castiel’s the one pacing now, and Dean’s dozing fitfully with his head to the wall. Then the silence is interrupted by footsteps coming down the set of basement stairs.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly, and Dean is at attention instantly, standing from the ground and moving to put his back to the wall beside the door.

The footsteps outside stop, and then Castiel looks down to see a plate with bread and cheese rammed through a wooden flap built into the cellar door.

“Dinner,” a voice says from the other side.

Castiel frowns and looks across at Dean. “Officer Nixon?”

There’s no response, but there are no retreating footsteps either.

“Nixon, hey,” Dean says, moving from the wall to press his face at the crack of the door. “Listen to me. Faith and power, that’s one thing, but that was _murder_ up there. You’re a cop, man. How can you sit by for this?”

Nixon’s quiet for a long time on the other side of the door. “He’s an angel,” he finally says. “A real angel, a messenger of Heaven. Do you deny that?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “No, we don’t.”

“Then how can you question him?”

“Because being an angel does not make you worthy or righteous, Officer Nixon,” Castiel says. Dean looks over at him, and Castiel tries to avoid his gaze. “Angels are flawed, corruptible creatures, and not immune to pride.”

There’s another long pause. “Simiel, he said,” Nixon says hesitantly. “He called you brother. You – you’re an angel too, aren’t you.”

Castiel closes his eyes. “I was. I’m human now.”

“How?”

“I chose to be.”

“But, why?” Nixon asks. “Why would you ever choose to be human? Humans are weak, and tiny. How could you choose to be so much less than what you were?”

Castiel opens his eyes then and looks at Dean. “I’m not. I’m different now, but I’m not less. Humans are not _less_ than angels.” A small smile crosses his face as his eyes meet Dean’s. “In many ways, they are so much better.”

Dean returns his smile a little sadly, then he brings his focus back to the door. “Listen, Nixon; humans, angels, it doesn’t matter. Put all that aside for a second. Simiel is making you murder and torture innocents. No matter who or what he is, when did you decide that was okay?”

Nixon pauses again. “You haven’t seen what he can do, how powerful he really is,” he says quietly.

“We have,” Castiel says. “We know all too well what he is capable of. Which is how we know he must be stopped.”

“C’mon, man,” Dean says. “We’re not asking you to do anything yourself. Just unlock this door for us. Help us get out of here, and we’ll handle Simiel.”

“No, no I can’t,” Nixon says. “I’m sorry. He is an angel, and he will kill me if I disobey. It is heavenly law.”

Castiel can’t help the rage that pulses through him. He slams his fist on the door. “No, Nixon! Forget _heavenly_ _law_. This is about _right_ and _wrong_.”

The impact of what Castiel’s just said hits him in the reverberating silence, and he turns to meet Dean’s shocked eyes.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Nixon says, and then his footsteps echo back up the stairs.

Dean and Castiel stand in silence another moment, then Dean brings his hand up to grip Castiel’s shoulder.

“Come full circle, huh?” he says quietly.

 

 

 

 

Castiel feels a hand gently shake his shoulder. “Cas, hey. Wake up. Think we’re gonna have company again soon.”

Castiel frowns and blinks. He sits up from where he’d been lying on the floor beside Dean. “How long have I been out?”

Dean grimaces. “Only about half an hour.”

“You shouldn’t have let me fall asleep,” he says.

Dean shakes his head and starts to stand. “You needed it.”

It’s then that Castiel notices the voices coming down the stairs and he shuffles to his feet just as a guard calls through the door.

“Backs against the far wall, now,” he says. It’s one of the guards who let them in the front gate. “Try something and you answer to Simiel.”

Castiel and Dean exchange a quick look, then silently creep up to stand on either side of the closed door. Castiel hears the key rattle in the lock, then the door swings open slowly. The point of the guard’s dagger appears in the doorway and Castiel moves instantly, slapping one palm over the guard’s mouth and using the other to force his weapon hand upwards. Dean comes in from the other side, ramming his body into the guard to try to force him back against the wall. Unfortunately, the guard had not come down alone, and a second follower barrels through the door, checking Dean clear across the room. Castiel struggles with his attacker, but a third guard appears then and sweeps her leg out, knocking Castiel to the ground. He lies on his back, winded, while all three guards extend their daggers down.

“What did I _say_ ,” the first guard snarls. He strides across the room and aims a kick square into Dean’s stomach. “You,” he turns back to Castiel and points his finger. “Simiel would like to speak with you alone.”

The other two followers haul Castiel roughly to his feet.

“Like hell,” Dean grunts. The guard kicks him again and he cries out.

“Enough!” Castiel says. “Leave him be, I’ll go.”

“Cas –” Dean starts, but Castiel gives him a warning look.

“I’ll go,” he repeats, keeping his eyes locked on Dean’s.

Then the guards holding his arms turn him around and march him back out through the door.

The first guard follows behind, locking Dean in again. A moment later Castiel hears him hollering through the door.

“You sons of _bitches_!”

They bring Castiel back upstairs and into the main room. It’s empty now, save for Simiel sitting back on his throne.

“Thank you, Curtis,” Simiel nods to the first guard. “You may leave us.”

The followers release Castiel and leave the room, heads bowed.

Simiel offers Castiel a pitying look. “I’m very sorry for any unpleasantness you have endured here, brother.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Castiel says.

Simiel shakes his head as though he’s disappointed. “I wish things didn’t have to be this way, Castiel. I was telling the truth before; I would like you to join me here.”

“Is that why you wanted to speak with me again? This is a sales pitch?”

“It is an offer, Castiel. One you would do well to accept.” He stands from his chair and steps down off the dais.

Castiel scoffs. “To do what, Simiel? To join your flock? Become one of your acolytes?”

Simiel draws level with Castiel. “No. We both know that you are not made to serve, Castiel, the same as I. It’s why you rebelled. Why you still rebel.”

“I rebelled for the benefit of all angels, Simiel, and for humanity,” Castiel says. “For the sake of them, and for free will. It was never for my own gains.”

Simiel frowns. “ _For_ them?”

Castiel almost laughs. “Yes, Simiel. How can your understanding of humanity be so completely wrong? They are not weak or fragile, and they do not desire to be ruled. Humanity is defined by free will, it always has been. It is what set them apart from us for so long.”

Simiel frowns again, then he steps forward, his eyes searching Castiel’s face. “You needn’t try to pretend with me. I understand you. You have known power; you have sought it out and wielded it to meet your own ends, just as I am doing here.” He paces away a bit, agitated. “You, Castiel, you have risen higher than any angel before you! You have led armies; you have waged war against Raphael and Metatron and Lucifer himself! Once, you marched into Heaven and slew a thousand angels with a single thought. You have walked the Earth and wreaked Holy vengeance upon the wicked.”

Castiel shakes his head, horrified. “Those stories you’re telling, they are stories of my failures, Simiel! Mistakes, all of them, and ones that nearly cost me everything.”

But Simiel ignores him. “How can you condemn me for my actions here? We are the same. I know you, brother.”

“You don’t know me, Simiel,” Castiel says, resolute. “You have _never_ known me.”

Simiel’s face hardens, and before Castiel can react Simiel raises his fist and strikes him across the jaw. Castiel falls to the floor, tasting blood.

“Guards!” Simiel calls abruptly, and Curtis appears at the door. “Gather all our friends, Curtis, bring them back in here.”

Curtis nods and leaves again, and Simiel bends down to speak. “I offered you a chance,” he hisses.

“To what?” Castiel asks, struggling to his knees. “Stand by your side? To terrorize and subjugate innocent people? I won’t.”

Simiel hits him again, fury and angelic strength sending him back to the floor. Castiel cries out in pain and all around him the room starts to fill with followers, watching warily.

“Not at my side, Castiel,” Simiel sneers. “You are human now. You have chosen to fall, to lower yourself. Perhaps you do belong at my feet, brother, with all the other human filth.”

Castiel draws back up again and meets his eyes. “I am not your brother, Simiel,” he spits.

Simiel’s face contorts with rage and he lets out a furious scream, his fist flying down again. Castiel cries out, and looks up to see the followers watching the two of them nervously. Simiel pays them no heed though, his eyes on Castiel manic and glittering.

Suddenly he blinks, confused, and a hand comes up to his temple. After a moment he looks down at Castiel again with a frown. “Well now, this is strange. Dean Winchester,” he says, and fear leaps up in Castiel’s throat. “Your little friend Dean. He’s – he’s _praying_ to me right now.”

Castiel’s heart thuds a little harder in his chest and he squints up from where he’s sprawled on the floor. “Is he?”

Simiel nods, fascination on his face. “Yes. How peculiar. And quaint,” he smiles then, the manic look back in his eyes. “He’s praying to me, saying that if I. . . if I harm you, he will ‘personally escort me to hell.’ How remarkable.”

Castiel can’t help it; his face breaks into a wide smile. He can feel the blood dripping down his chin. “Yes, he is.”

Simiel looks at him then, understanding dawning on his face. “Of course. How did I not see this?” His next smile is cold, and terror grips Castiel’s heart. “Curtis,” he calls out to the room, his eyes not leaving Castiel’s face. “Bring Dean Winchester up here.”

“Leave him, Simiel,” Castiel says, trying not to betray his panic. “This is about you and me.”

“Oh no, Castiel, I don’t think that’s true,” he says. “I think Dean Winchester has _everything_ to do with this. Hold him.”

Hands grab Castiel then, twisting his arms behind his back, and a blade is again pressed to his neck. A moment later Castiel can hear Dean yelling and cursing as he’s brought up from the basement.

“Where is he? The hell did you do to him, huh? CAS!”

Dean is brought into the room then, and his eyes find Castiel’s instantly. Castiel allows himself a moment of warmth as he takes in the naked relief on Dean’s face. But the fear returns as Dean is roughly forced to the ground several feet away, facing him.

Dean’s eyes trace over the blood covering Castiel’s chin, then he turns up to Simiel, furious. “You bastard.”

Simiel stands above them both, eyes flashing. “I was wrong about you, Castiel. We are not the same at all. You reject your family – your brothers and sisters and our _Father_ – not for your lofty ideals, not for ‘free will.’ No,” he says, now leering down at Dean. “It was for this. You _debase_ yourself and all that you are, for the sake of an ape.”

Dean glares back at him. “I am going to kill you,” he says through gritted teeth.

Simiel laughs, soft and dangerous. “I understand now the name many angels have given you, Dean. They call you the Pride –” he slides his eyes back over to Castiel. “Before the _Fall_.” He looks back at Dean. “Not since Lucifer has Heaven known a more corrupting force.”

Dean’s face flushes and he casts his eyes down.

“ _No_ ,” Castiel says, pulling Simiel’s attention back. “Go to hell, _brother_. And stop running your mouth about things you don’t understand.” He feels the sharp sting of the knife and blood trickles down his neck. He finds he doesn’t care. “You were an unremarkable soldier in an army of thousands, and now you lord over a few dozen humans, speaking grandly of power and control. You are _nothing_.”

Rage flares in Simiel’s eyes and he reaches out a hand to Castiel’s head. Dean cries out a warning, but Simiel merely winds his fingers tight into Castiel’s hair, yanking his head back. Then a long, silver blade slides out from nothingness into Simiel’s hand.

“I am not _nothing_ , Castiel,” he whispers, leaning in close and pressing his angel blade into Castiel’s neck.

Castiel’s eyes find Dean. He is fighting to free himself, struggling uselessly against the hands of four followers, but his eyes stay on Castiel, desperation on his face. Castiel tries to smile at him.

There is suddenly a commotion from the other side of the room. Three guards burst through from the hall, knives drawn.

“Simiel!” one says. “The police are here. Dozens of them; they’re already past the gate.”

Simiel is momentarily distracted, and Castiel moves quickly, wrenching his arms free and pushing the blade away from his neck. It skitters across the ground and then the room is in chaos.

Simiel is trying to holler out instructions, but his followers are scattering. There are more noises from the front door and Castiel can see several guards heading outside, blades drawn. Then there are gunshots.

He scans the room for Dean, heart in his throat, and finds him locked in a fight with Curtis. Castiel looks back to the ground for the angel blade, but it’s gone. He sees Simiel up in front of his throne, trying to regain control, but he doesn’t have the blade either. Castiel looks around wildly, then he sees Officer Nixon, pale-faced, charging across the room with the glint of silver in his hand.

Before Castiel can say or do anything, Nixon steps forward and rams the blade clean through Simiel’s chest.

Simiel stares at him, his mouth open in surprise. Nixon is breathing hard and his eyes are wide, then he takes a step backwards and pulls the blade out. Simiel falls, and Castiel shields his eyes as grace lights up the room.

When he opens his eyes again, the room has cleared out and Nixon is standing over Simiel’s body, the blade hanging limp by his side. Castiel spins around to see Curtis on the floor, Dean a little bloody but looking relatively unscathed. He steps up to Castiel, eyes roving his face. Castiel nods, then turns back to Nixon.

“Eric?” he asks, and Nixon turns around.

His eyes draw back and forth between the two of them. “Free will,” he says softly. Then he clears his throat and looks towards the front of the house, where yelling and the sounds of fighting can still be heard. “Go, get out of here. Simiel had them dump your car; if you follow the path out the back door you’ll find it. I’ll handle the captain.”

“You called them?” Dean asks, gathering their duffelbags from where they still lie on the floor by the throne.

Nixon nods at Dean. “I’m a cop. Now go.”

Dean nods back, then his hand comes up to Castiel’s arm. “Thank you,” he says, then pulls Castiel away.

They move silently through the snow out back, scaling the fence and ducking the police floodlights until they make it to the Impala parked in a lot down beside the barn. There’s a separate side road that leads out to the highway, and Dean peels out quickly, his eyes staying on the rearview mirror until they’re well away from the farm.

They keep driving.

 

 

 

 

When they eventually stop a few hours later, it’s almost 2:00am. They’d done their best to clear their faces of blood as they drove, but the clerk at the motel desk still gives them slightly suspicious looks. Dean waves her away with the usual lie about a bar brawl, and they head into their room.

They both kick their snowy boots off at the door, and Castiel heads back into the bathroom. His face isn’t too badly swollen, thanks to some ice from the beer cooler, and the cut on his cheek has stopped bleeding. He washes the rest of the blood away and comes back out into the main room. Dean is sitting on a bed, down to his t-shirt as he examines a cut on his shoulder.

“Do you need anything for that?” Castiel asks.

Dean looks up at him then shakes his head. “Nah, just a scratch.” He stands then, walking over to Castiel. “What about you? He get you anywhere else?”

“No, I’m fine,” Castiel says.

Dean extends a hand toward Castiel’s face, but then withdraws it almost instantly. The strange, sad smile reappears on his face and he takes a step back. “We should try to get some rest. I’m pretty wiped.”

“What’s wrong, Dean?” Castiel asks.

Dean looks at him briefly, then paces a few steps away. He starts needlessly folding the clothes in his duffel. “I don’t know, man. I guess I just can’t help thinking about some of that stuff Simiel was saying. And Ruth too.”

“What stuff?”

Dean shrugs. “About you, giving up being an angel. You choosing humanity – choosing, well, me,” he pauses, blushing a little. “And I mean hey, I know angeldom isn’t actually all it’s cracked up to be, and I’m not saying Simiel wasn’t a Grade A whackjob, but he had a point. You used to be this great, colossal, cosmic wavelength or whatever, and now you’re slumming it down here with me.” He abandons his duffel and faces Castiel again. “There’s a lot better out there for you, Cas.”

Castiel stares at him. And then the dam breaks.

He rushes forward, gripping Dean by the shoulders and pushing him backwards until they slam into the wall. Castiel crashes his mouth down onto Dean’s, muffling his startled gasp when Castiel’s hips pin him to the wall.

“I _chose_ this,” Castiel wrenches his mouth away and breathes harshly against Dean’s lips. “I _want_ this.” He leans back in again, kissing Dean deep and rough. His hands leave Dean’s shoulders, one going up to cradle the side of his face while the other slides down his flank to his thigh. Castiel grips the flesh there and hikes Dean’s leg up around his waist, grinding their hips together more fully. The hunger burns again and he feels Dean’s arousal pressing solidly against his own.

Dean groans and rocks his hips forward, but then his hand comes up to push at Castiel’s shoulder and he pulls his mouth away. “Whoa, whoa, hold on Cas.” He breathes hard for a moment then brings his thumb up to Castiel’s mouth, dragging it across the well of his lower lip. One of his cuts has broken open. “Just tell me you’re okay,” Dean says.

Castiel meets his eyes and breathes for a moment, then leans back in to kiss him briefly, lighter this time. “This life is complicated,” he says, and rolls his hips forward. Dean sucks in a breath, eyes blowing wide. “It’s messy,” he rolls his hips again, “and it’s painful, and I am _choosing_ _this_.” He halts his movements and sinks forward to kiss Dean again. Dean whimpers and Castiel pulls back. “Give me my choice, Dean. Please,” he murmurs.

Dean looks at him a long moment, then his hands come up to frame Castiel’s face. “Okay,” he says softly, and he leans forward to kiss Castiel, tender. “Okay.”

Castiel lets Dean slow the pace, returning his kisses gently. After a moment he pulls away and dips his head down to mouth at Dean’s neck, below his ear and at the bolt of his jaw. Dean draws in a shaky breath and one of his hands finds the back of Castiel’s hair, running his fingers through it lightly. Castiel starts up the roll of his hips again, angling them so their cocks line up through their jeans.

“Cas,” Dean breathes. His hand comes down to find Castiel’s arm, trailing it along until he meets the hand gripping his thigh. Dean pulls the hand away and links their fingers together, lowering his foot back to the ground. “C’mon,” he says, stepping out from the wall and leading Castiel over to a bed. He turns back around and kisses him as his hands come up to push Castiel’s button-up down his arms.

Castiel’s impatience wins out then, and he pulls his arms free of the shirt then moves in, pushing Dean down onto the bed. Dean goes willingly, shuffling further up then throwing a hand around the back of Castiel’s neck to pull him down too. Castiel stretches out above him, taking advantage of their new position by grinding their cocks together again and thrusting his tongue deep into Dean’s mouth.

He keeps up the luscious grind of his hips as Dean’s hands start running hot and fast over him; his back, his neck, up into his hair. Then they travel further down, palms gripping Castiel’s ass and pulling them flush together. Then he drags them back up and pulls at Castiel’s t-shirt, bunching it up a little as his hands grapple at the exposed skin at Castiel’s waist.

Frustrated, Castiel pulls away from Dean’s mouth with a quiet growl and sits back on his knees, pulling his t-shirt off. Dean sits up a little too, and Castiel reaches down to help him yank his own shirt over his head. Then Dean’s hands fly to the button of Castiel’s jeans, popping it and pulling the zipper down. He then fumbles shaking hands to his own fly while Castiel pushes his pants down just enough to free his aching cock. Dean pulls himself free as well, sighing a little in relief. His eyes travel slowly up Castiel’s body until their eyes are locked again, and they stare at each other breathlessly for half a moment.

Castiel thinks it’s been far too long since he’s had his mouth on Dean’s, so he leans back down and presses their lips together, darting his tongue out again. Then he angles his hips and drags his now exposed cock against Dean’s.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas,” Dean gasps, thrusting his own hips up to meet Castiel’s. His hands come up to wrap around Castiel’s shoulders and pull them tighter together, and Castiel groans and ducks his head to run his tongue down Dean’s throat.

Dean keeps rolling his hips upwards while Castiel pushes down, and soon Castiel starts to feel the tight coiling of his release. He leans back up to kiss Dean again, supporting himself with one hand while the other trails across Dean’s chest. His thumb catches a nipple and Dean inhales sharply, arching up into Castiel’s palm. Castiel swallows the sound and a moment later he feels Dean slide a hand down his stomach. He has little time to brace himself before Dean’s hand is on his cock, gripping firmly.

Castiel lets out a groan as Dean starts to slowly pump his hand. He presses another searing kiss to Dean’s mouth before pulling back to look at him. Dean is staring up at him, the green in his eyes just a thin ring around the black. “Dean,” he murmurs. “Please.” He doesn’t actually know what he’s asking for, but Dean seems to understand.

He pulls Castiel back down and kisses him deeply, moving his hand off Castiel’s cock. Castiel lets out an involuntary whine of protest, but then Dean’s cock is alongside his again and Dean’s stroking a hand along both of them together.

The combined sensation is overwhelming, and Castiel breaks his mouth away and starts thrusting roughly into Dean’s fist. It’s moments later he feels his climax approaching and his hips lose their rhythm.

“God, Cas. _Fuck_ ,” Dean says, drawing his other hand up to messily pull their lips back together. For a moment they’re not really kissing, just breathing into one another’s mouths as sensation takes over completely. It’s in this moment that Castiel crests the edge, shuddering out a gasp against Dean’s parted lips. He keeps thrusting jerkily through it, and then Dean groans out his name. Castiel can feel warm come hitting his chest and he seals their lips together, kissing Dean through his release.

They stay pressed close for a while, trading slow, sated kisses as their breathing returns to normal. Then Dean pushes his shoulder gently, rolling Castiel off him. He leans away enough to grab his discarded t-shirt to wipe down his stomach and kick his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off. Castiel pushes his own pants to the floor then shifts to pull the covers down for them as Dean reaches up to switch off the light.

They shuffle down into the bed and Dean pulls the sheets up and over them, then throws his arm across Castiel’s chest. He kisses him again, gently, and Castiel kisses him back, running a hand up through his hair.

“Try to sleep,” Dean says quietly, tucking his head down under Castiel’s chin.

Castiel smiles softly and after a moment closes his eyes, hoping desperately that Dean’s still there when he wakes up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, police ex machina, guilty.  
> But I wrote you smut, so hopefully you'll forgive me.
> 
> Thanks for reading, friends.  
> I'm always a slut for kudos.  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG


	9. Track 9: Ten Years Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Light and fire hit him in flashes. Simiel is standing above him; his eyes are bright and glittering and the angel blade is in his hand. Castiel tries to scream but he can’t seem to force out a sound. Then Simiel’s throat starts pouring blood, only it’s not blood, it’s blue-white grace spilling out in a flood and Castiel catapults himself upright in bed.

Changes fill my time, baby, that's alright with me  
In the midst I think of you, and how it used to be  
  
Did you ever really need somebody, And really need 'em bad  
Did you ever really want somebody, The best love you ever had  
Do you ever remember me, baby, did it feel so good  
'Cause it was just the first time, And you knew you would

 

 

 

 

Light and fire hit him in flashes. Simiel is standing above him; his eyes are bright and glittering and the angel blade is in his hand. Castiel tries to scream but he can’t seem to force out a sound. Then Simiel’s throat starts pouring blood, only it’s not blood, it’s blue-white grace spilling out in a flood and Castiel catapults himself upright in bed.

His heart is pounding so hard he can barely pull in a breath. His hands fly up to his sweat-covered face and he rubs at his eyes, trying to erase the images the dream seared into his head.

In, out. In, out.

Thirty seconds, a minute, but adrenaline is still surging through him and his heart refuses to slow. He’s bringing his knees up to support his elbows when it occurs to Castiel he’s naked. His mind grapples with consciousness and he remembers he’s not alone.

Dean hasn’t woken, fortunately. They’d untangled in the hour or two since they’d been asleep and he’s lying on his back, head tilted toward the centre of the bed. His eyes are moving rapidly behind his closed lids; he must be dreaming too.

Trying not to disturb him, Castiel inches out from the covers and stumbles his way to the bathroom. Closing the door but leaving the light off, he braces his hands on the counter and bows his head. He’s had worse dreams, but not many. It’s to be expected, given all they went through yesterday, but he can’t help but feel a sense of disappointment. He wonders if Heaven’s nightmares will ever truly leave him.

Castiel pushes the visions down, as he does every morning, and turns on the sink. He fills his cupped hands and rinses sweat from his face and neck. There is a sour and empty feeling in his stomach that he’s come to associate with dreams about Heaven, so he dips his head down to drink from the faucet as well, hoping to soothe it. His breathing is finally starting to even out, so he relieves himself and steps back out into the main room.

It’s early, but still dark outside. Castiel knows he won’t be sleeping again tonight, and for a moment he contemplates pulling out the laptop to try to find a new case, but right now the thought is exhausting. His eyes find Dean on the bed instead.

That he is standing here now in a nameless motel, human and with his human lover lying peacefully nearby, is nothing less than extraordinary. He lived eons as one thing, unchanging, and in the scant few years since Castiel pulled his broken soul from Hell, Dean has brought him so far from what he used to be. In fact, despite the breadth of his years, Castiel can’t help but designate the days of his life as either Before Dean or After Dean.

Dean, who is brash and loud and stubborn, and who last night had kissed Castiel so tenderly. Who has grown up with a gun in his hand, has courted death and violence since he was four years old, but is more full of love and joy and light than anyone Castiel has ever known.

Dean had held him gently and brought him to his fall and Castiel doesn’t think he’ll ever be worthy of him. But for now, he decides to merely be grateful.

Dean rolls over then, curling onto his side, and suddenly the idea of being anywhere but next to him is nonsensical. Castiel slips quietly back into the bed and draws the covers up over his chilled skin. He’s torn between needing to be close to Dean and not wanting to wake him, but as ever Dean makes the decision for him. He’s still asleep, Castiel’s pretty sure, but he inches himself backwards slightly and then reaches a searching hand out behind him. Castiel smiles and shuffles up tight to Dean’s back, wrapping an arm across his chest. Dean gives a sleepy sort of hum, and Castiel buries his face at the back of his neck. He presses a soft kiss there and sighs. He won’t be sleeping, but there are worse ways to spend his time.

 

 

 

 

Dean sleeps another few hours, breathing steadily in Castiel’s arms. It’s just as light starts to glow through the motel curtains that Dean starts to shift and stretch against him. One of Dean’s hands traces down Castiel’s arm and he links their fingers, and Castiel smiles against the skin of Dean’s neck and leans up to kiss the blade of his shoulder.

“Hello,” he says softly.

Dean doesn’t respond. Instead he keeps shifting his hips, pushing them backwards to press against Castiel’s groin. Castiel sucks in a breath, heat flaring as blood rushes to his cock. Dean moves again, pushing back and deliberately rubbing his ass against him. Castiel moves his own hips instinctually forward in response, and his lips find the knob of Dean’s spine. He sucks a kiss there, then moves his mouth across the top of Dean’s shoulders in a slow, exploratory path. Dean keeps rolling his hips as the hand not holding Castiel’s reaches back and around, finding his head. His fingers grip and twist in Castiel’s hair, then draw down to the back of his neck.

Castiel moves to kiss Dean’s neck then, angling his head up to reach. Dean changes the roll of his hips, grinding back in a circular motion, and Castiel groans as his cock hardens further. Then Dean shifts away from him, pulling his hands clear and twisting around to face him. There’s a wide grin on his face and his eyes are bright. Castiel moves forward to kiss him, but Dean leans away, teasing. Then he pushes at Castiel’s shoulder until he’s lying flat on his back and dips his head down.

Dean drops kisses at his neck and his shoulders, then starts to move down his chest. His hands drag along with his mouth, skating across Castiel’s skin lightly. Dean closes his lips around one of Castiel’s nipples, teasing with his tongue. He shifts across to give the other the same attention, then keeps moving. He inches further and further, laving at his stomach and his hipbones, hands roving up and down. Castiel’s fully hard by now, and he watches as Dean starts to draw his tongue across the crease of his thigh.

Castiel’s breathing heavily as Dean shifts himself to rest between his legs. He presses a few kisses to Castiel’s trembling thighs, then he looks back up to meet his eyes. Castiel nods, a little desperately, and Dean grins and very slowly and deliberately licks his lips. One hand comes up to grip the base of Castiel’s cock, and Dean locks their eyes as he leans down and seals his lips around the crown. He swirls his tongue and Castiel is momentarily overwhelmed, his eyes squeezing shut. Dean pulls off and starts kissing down the underside, moving his hand to mouth around the base. Castiel looks back down to meet his eyes again as Dean slowly drags his tongue all the way back up, then runs it flat across the head.

His fists have been twisted in the sheets, but when Dean drops back down to take Castiel’s cock in his mouth again a hand shoots out to grab at Dean’s hair for purchase. Dean keeps moving down until his lips meet his hand, then he draws back up, tongue tracing along the underside again. He starts to bob his head, working his hand in tandem. Castiel watches breathlessly, losing himself in the heat of Dean’s mouth.

After a particularly skillful pass of Dean’s tongue, Castiel’s fingers tighten in his hair and he tugs sharply. Dean lets out a moan in response that sends vibrations straight into Castiel’s cock, and his hips jerk reflexively upwards. Dean inhales sharply through his nose and starts to sputter a little.

“S-sorry,” Castiel apologizes breathlessly.

But Dean hums again and moves his hands to grip at Castiel’s thighs. Keeping his mouth wrapped around Castiel’s cock, Dean squeezes his thighs and presses his head up into Castiel’s hand. Castiel hesitates, but Dean looks up at him and winks.

Castiel, wide-eyed and shaking, tightens his grip in Dean’s hair and starts to slowly move his hips in shallow thrusts. Dean closes his eyes, humming again and letting Castiel fuck his mouth. Castiel drops his head back, instinct taking over as he starts to slowly come undone.

It’s not too much longer before Castiel feels the tension coiling tight in his groin. He tips his head back down to watch his cock sliding wetly in and out of Dean’s mouth and tugs his hand in warning.

“ _Dean_ , Dean I’m –” he starts, but Dean squeezes his thighs and hums again. He doesn’t pull away.

Castiel’s hips continue thrusting, uncontrollably, and just as he feels his climax hit Dean finds his eyes again. Castiel groans and gasps out a sound like Dean’s name as he shoots into his mouth. Dean still doesn’t break away, but he moans deeply and one of his hands leaves Castiel’s thighs to drop down between his own legs.

Dean sucks at him a moment longer, then he pulls off to surge up Castiel’s body and finally kiss him. Through his fevered panting, Castiel can taste himself on Dean’s tongue.

Dean straddles his waist and keeps kissing him; one hand wraps around the back of Castiel’s neck to pull his head up, and Castiel props himself up on his elbows.

Dean pulls his mouth away enough to speak. “ _God_ , Cas, when you look at me like that. . .” he breathes, and Castiel looks down to see Dean’s other hand is flying over his own cock. It’s only a moment later that Dean comes, white streaking across Castiel’s stomach. Dean gasps and shudders, dropping his head down to Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel wraps his arms across his back and pulls them down onto the bed.

They both lie there panting for a few minutes, neither seeming to be in any great hurry to move. After a while Castiel slides a hand from Dean’s back to run through the hair at the nape of his neck, and Dean tilts up to kiss him.

“Mornin,’” he mumbles, and Castiel grins against his lips.

“Good morning.”

Dean kisses him again then starts to shift himself away. “Don’t move,” he says, then climbs off the bed and disappears into the bathroom. He comes back a minute later with a washcloth and starts to gently sweep it across Castiel’s stomach, then down to his thighs and his oversensitive cock. Castiel looks up and notes with interest that Dean’s cheeks are a little pink, and they deepen further when he catches Castiel looking. He turns away, leaning up off the bed, but Castiel catches his wrist. He takes the washcloth from Dean and without looking hurls it carelessly back towards the bathroom, then he pulls Dean back down over top of him to seal their lips together.

Dean chuckles but kisses him back, sliding down so they’re side by side. They stay wrapped up like that another long while as light starts to stream into the room.

Eventually Dean breaks away, dropping his head down onto the pillow. “You get any sleep last night?”

Castiel hesitates. “Yes, I’m fine,” he says.

Dean looks at him a moment, then angles his head down and closes his eyes. “Don’t. . . don’t lie to me, man. You don’t have to, especially not now.”

Castiel draws a long breath in. “Alright, no. Not really.”

Dean nods and draws a hand across his chest.

“I don’t understand it,” Castiel says, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m happy, Dean. Working with you, and being with you like this, it – it makes me happy. I don’t know why I don’t feel better.”

Dean presses a chaste kiss to his shoulder. “It doesn’t work like that, Cas. It’d be so much easier if it did, but the nightmares don’t care that you’re happy. When you’ve been through the kind of shit we have, sex isn’t enough to make it just go away.”

Castiel pauses, turning back down to Dean. “This, it’s not just sex, though.”

Dean tilts his head back up. “No, it’s not,” he says quietly, then pulls their mouths together again.

They break apart and lie in silence a while. Castiel starts tracing his fingers lightly over the scarred flesh of Dean’s side; it’s healed well, considering, but he still regrets he isn’t able to simply wipe it all away.

Dean watches his face. “So, was it Simiel?”

Castiel raises an eyebrow in question.

“Your dream,” he says. “Was it about Simiel?”

Castiel closes his eyes, flashes of the dream coming back, and Dean draws a calming hand across his cheek. “Yes,” he says. “And other things, I think. I never remember them too clearly.” He opens his eyes again. “Is that how it is for you?”

“Depends,” Dean says. “After the blood cure, I would close my eyes and remember everything demon me did, crystal clear. I’d live it all over again, every night. But after hell it was all just bits and pieces; images and, I dunno, this pit in my stomach. I’d wake up terrified and not know why.”

“I get that,” Castiel says. “The pit in my stomach. My heart pounds and sometimes my hands shake. And this morning I couldn’t catch my breath, no matter what I did.”

Dean frowns at him. “Panic attack?”

Castiel shrugs.

“You should’ve woken me up.”

“You were sleeping, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Nah, see, that’s the benefit of this whole. . .” Dean frowns and gestures vaguely between the two of them, “. . . thing.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Romantic.”

“Thank you. Anyway, not only do you get exclusive rights to this sweet ass, you get to wake me up in the middle of the night, whenever you want, for whatever reason.”

It’s another one of those moments where Dean’s said something huge and overwhelming and doesn’t even realize it. Castiel doesn’t know how to respond, so he swallows past the lump forming in his throat and throws on a playful smirk instead. “Really? For whatever reason?” he asks, ducking his head and dragging his lips down Dean’s neck.

Dean snorts, but bears his throat a little more. “I’ve created a monster,” he says. Then he pulls Castiel’s head back up and kisses him soundly.

He breaks away a moment later and looks Castiel in the eye, serious again. “I mean it, Cas. Tell me when it’s bad. I promise you won’t be doing me any favours by keeping me in the dark. Got it?”

Castiel swallows again and nods. “Alright.”

Dean nods back in confirmation, then sighs and tilts his head to look at the clock. It’s nearly 8:30am.

“We should get up,” Castiel says.

“Ugh, I don’t want to move yet.”

“I’m starving.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, alright, me too.” His phone starts ringing then, and he grimaces. “That’s probably Sam,” he says, rolling away and leaning over the side of the bed. “We didn’t check in with him last night.” He grapples with his discarded pants and fishes the phone out of the pocket, thumbing the answer button.

“Hey, Sammy. Yeah – yeah no, sorry, we’re fine. It was kind of a rough one though. . .” he says.

Castiel exhales a long sigh and starts to heave himself up, but Dean throws out a hand and catches his wrist.

“Hey, Sam? Give us a day, okay?” Then he hangs up the phone and pulls Castiel back down onto the bed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little teensy morning-after chapter for you. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, friends.  
> I'm always a slut for kudos.  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG


	10. Track 10: Going To California

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most surprising part is how little things have changed. Like, for instance, the exact way that Cas rolls his eyes when he thinks Dean’s being particularly obtuse. 
> 
> “Seriously, Sam, why is your school so jacked for tragedy?”
> 
> “What the hell are you talking about?” Sam asks. 
> 
> Dean turns away from Cas’ crossed arms and holds the phone up higher. “Do you have any idea how many people have died bloody on your alma mater’s campus?” 
> 
> “Wait, you. . . are you at Stanford?”

To find a queen without a king,  
They say she plays guitar and cries and sings... la la la  
Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn  
Tryin' to find a woman who's never, never, never been born.  
Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams,  
Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.

 

 

 

 

The most surprising part is how little things have changed. Like, for instance, the exact way that Cas rolls his eyes when he thinks Dean’s being particularly obtuse.

“Seriously, Sam, why is your school so jacked for tragedy?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam asks.

Dean turns away from Cas’ crossed arms and holds the phone up higher. “Do you have any idea how many people have died bloody on your alma mater’s campus?”

“Wait, you. . . are you at Stanford?”

“Yes, Sam. Palo Alto: the air’s lovely, and we have a string of suspicious deaths. Three members of the Stanford board of trustees. Things are looking ghosty, so we started digging and _wow_ is it a big pile of nasty.”

For a second there’s some noise on the other end, and then Dean can faintly hear Sam’s muffled voice.

“Where are you? Who are you talking to?” Dean asks.

Sam comes back on a second later. “Nothing, it’s fine, I’m talking to Sadie. So, Stanford has a ghost that’s dropping bodies?”

Dean turns back around to Cas, who’s leaning against Baby’s driver-side door and looking exasperated. “Yeah. Thought we’d go right to the source; any local legends you can think of?”

“Well, maybe. I don’t know if you remember or not, but when I left for school I was kind of trying to avoid the whole Strange and Unexplained side of life.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I seem to recall something about that.”

“Um, okay, lemme think,” Sam says thoughtfully. “I remember there was a string of murders back in the 70s, some nasty stuff. And I think people used to say this clock tower was haunted after some guy took a swan dive. And there was a janitor who got crunched up by the pin machine at the bowling alley.”

“Yeah, that’s all the stuff we found,” Dean nods. “Like I said, jacked. But none of that matches up to our M.O. so far.”

There’s silence on Sam’s end for a moment before he speaks again. “Okay, well I’ll keep thinking and get back to you.”

Dean sighs. “’Kay, thanks Sammy.” He hangs up and moves to the car door. “Worth a try.”

Cas doesn’t move, doesn’t even uncross his arms. “You could’ve been a little more sensitive.”

Dean takes another step closer and gives him a look, amused. “Are you really giving me lessons in tact? You?”

The corner of Cas’ mouth twitches and he rolls his eyes again. “It’s probably hard for him, Dean.”

“Sam’s fine, Cas. It’s not like we’re asking him to come back and give us a guided tour. Now,” he glances around the deserted parking lot, then leans in against the car and drops his voice. “Are you going to move out of the way, or am I going to make you move?”

Cas looks back a him a moment, cocking one eyebrow, but then he inches along the car and starts walking around to the passenger side.

“Damn,” Dean shakes his head. “I was looking forward to trying.”

“Oh, I know you were.”

 

 

 

 

Eye rolls aside, Dean’s pretty sure he hasn’t been this happy in. . . probably ever. The last time he felt anything close to this had been his few weeks with Cassie – and that was a literal lifetime ago. In the last six weeks, he’s had that same giddy punch-drunk feeling he had when he was with her – the feeling that only comes with being totally head over heels for someone – only it’s different with Cas. Cas _knows_ him, every ugly and messy part of him, and for some totally inexplicable reason, he’s sticking around.

Dean’s actually pretty impressed how quickly they figured out this new step. They work together the same as they always did, hunting and fighting and staying perfectly in-sync. They bicker just as much, but now they get to have really awesome makeup sex after. And morning sex, middle-of-the-afternoon sex, and we-almost-died sex. There was the particularly memorable night when Cas made it his mission to kiss every square inch of Dean’s skin, or the time when they’d fulfilled one of Dean’s longest-standing fantasies and jerked each other off in Baby’s backseat. Just this morning, Cas had dropped to his knees in the shower to blow Dean like he was getting paid for it. He had gripped at Dean’s hips and his thighs, and just before he came Cas’ fingers had dipped into the cleft of his ass, curious, and Dean’s heart has been pounding with possibilities ever since.

It’s not just sex, though. In between all the working and the cases and the driving there are cups of coffee and quiet mornings, light touches and casual kisses. There’s a sense of comfort, and a new kind of intimacy that’s fallen into place.

Not that Dean’s lost all his hang-ups. There’s a tiny, traitorous voice that keeps reminding him of why the two of them shouldn’t work, or that Cas is going to up and leave him for something better, or that one of these days Dean’s going to screw things up too badly to fix.

He still asks for a double when they check into a motel, even though they always share one bed. He won’t kiss Cas in public, and he always double-checks they’re alone before he gets any closer than two average guys normally would. Cas has followed his lead, hasn’t commented, and for that Dean is grateful, and also moderately ashamed. It’s not that he isn’t comfortable with himself and what he likes; he’s seen enough crazy in his life to know that who someone wants or loves doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. And he’s been nuts about Cas long enough that any personal anxieties have been put to rest. But he’s had his John Winchester-constructed façade up for so long, it’s hard to let it down in front of the whole world.

He hasn’t told his Mom; who’d have thought that Dean Winchester would ever have to deal with coming out to his mother.

And he hasn’t told Sam. And for that he doesn’t have a good answer.

 

 

 

 

They get the call from campus police late the next morning, informing them of the fourth case of unexplained heart failure to rock the university’s administration. Brenda Kelly, 54 years old and Stanford’s CFO, was found in her office by her secretary. The building is swarming with police when they arrive, and they flash their badges on their way up to the top floor.

“Ohh, hello, Agent Fraser!” comes trilling down the hall and Dean smirks. Officer Braimah of Stanford Campus Police waves them over, holding up the police tape. She flashes a bright, toothy smile at Cas. “It’s nice to see you again, Agent. Of course, not under these circumstances, but all the same.”

“Yes, hello, Officer,” Cas says, smiling pleasantly, but Dean can see the beginnings of panic creeping into his face.

Dean fights his grin by clearing his throat loudly. “Can you tell us what we’re in for, Officer? This one the same as the others?”

Braimah gives him a cursory glance. “Oh, yes Agent, it looks that way.” She turns back to Cas and flips her dark, curly hair. “We can’t keep meeting like this.”

Dean snorts out a laugh he doesn’t quite manage to disguise as a cough. Cas keeps his smile in place, but his eyes start rapidly shifting back and forth over her head.

“Well, I suppose we should get to work,” he says, and starts to duck around her. Dean follows, shoulders shaking, but Braimah calls after them.

“Oh, your other partner’s already inside. I told him you two would be on your way.”

Dean pauses, and Cas turns back to look at him.

“Thank you, Officer,” Cas says after a moment, and they continue on toward the office.

Sam’s towering frame is visible instantly when they step inside. His back is to them and he’s reading from a file folder, the sheet-covered body at his feet.

Dean clears his throat. “Good morning, _Agent_ ,” he says, and Sam turns around, a broad smile on his face.

“Good morning, Agent Kowalski. Agent Fraser,” he says, nodding to Cas. “Glad you made it.”

Dean stares at him, then jerks his head over to the corner. They huddle together out of earshot.

“ _Due South_ Dean? Really?” Sam asks, voice low.

“The hell are you doing here, man?” Dean asks.

Sam grins again. “Surprise. Couldn’t miss the chance to visit my old stomping grounds.”

“Seriously?” Dean asks incredulously.

“How did you get here so fast?” Cas asks. “We only called you last night.”

Sam flushes a little. “I was in the area. Ish.”

“‘In the area?’ What does that mean?” Dean asks.

Sam looks furtively around for a second. “Hey, how about we skip that and come back later. Right now, we’ve got a seriously messed up body on our hands.”

Dean narrows his eyes at him, then nods. “Alright fine. So, this one all creepified too? Face frozen in pain and limbs all wonky?”

Sam nods, turning back to the body on the floor. “Yeah, pretty grisly. Secretary’s the only witness; she came in for work at nine this morning and found her on the floor. M.E. thinks she’s been there since last night.” He looks back up at the two of them with a grimace. “All of the bodies look like this?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “Cause of death in all of them so far has been heart failure. They were all found in rooms locked from the inside, EMF readings spiking at each scene.”

“Yeah, I did a check before you guys got here: needle went haywire,” Sam says. “But other than that I don’t think we’ve got much to go on.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah. Told ya we were stuck on this one.”

“Well, good thing I’m here then,” he says, then nods his head towards the door. “So, you guys down for an early lunch? I know a great place.”

They make it down to the lot and Sam leads them over to where the truck is parked. Cas steps up and runs an appreciative hand across the hood, smiling slightly.

Dean snorts, and Cas throws him a look.

“Oh, so you’re the only one who’s allowed to love his car?”

“Oh you’re allowed to love your car, Cas, but that is not a car. That’s a disaster.”

Cas narrows his eyes threateningly just as Officer Braimah comes jogging up to them.

“Oh, Agents, I’m so glad I caught you!” she says, sparing Dean and Sam brief glances before focusing entirely on Cas again and talking a mile a minute. “Just so you know, we finally got a hold of Tim Chen, our witness to the first death. My supervisor’s interviewing him back at the Campus Police HQ but I figured you’d want a crack at him too.” She frowns then. “I’d bring you over there myself, but I’m stuck here on guard duty. Just the worst luck, I know. But I’m sure we’ll get a chance to see each other again soon.”

Cas looks a little cornered, so Dean takes pity on him.

“Thank you, Officer Braimah,” Dean says, and she finally peels her eyes away from Cas. “We’ll make sure one of us heads over there to speak with him.”

She clears her throat and looks back and forth between him and Sam a moment. “Right, of course. Have a good day, Agents,” she says, then hurries back up to the building.

Sam turns to Cas, amused. “Well, she seems nice.”

Cas eyes Sam a moment, uncomfortable. “Yes. Very nice, I’m sure.”

Dean grins. “Oh she zeroed in on him right away. Told him yesterday that he should call her _Erin_ , and that she’d _love_ to show him around campus later.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Cas complains.

“No such thing as too much,” Dean says. “Now, who’s gonna go talk to our janitor witness?”

“I’ll go,” Cas says brightly, moving to pat the truck’s door.

“You’re eager,” Dean says.

“I’m just looking forward to driving without your constant nagging,” Cas says pleasantly, hopping up into the cab as Dean gapes at him. “Text me the address for the restaurant, I’ll meet you there in a bit.”

He drives off, leaving Dean half insulted and half impressed. Sam leans his head over.

“Is it me, or is he getting snarkier?”

Dean shakes his head. “Oh, it’s not you.”

 

 

 

 

Sam’s great place to eat turns out to be the campus pub, and it’s packed full of students. They find a high-chaired table near the front window, and Sam looks around with a smile on his face.

“Hasn’t really changed much,” he says.

Dean eyes him for a moment. “Okay, seriously dude. What are you doing here? I mean, not that it’s not good to see you, but I wouldn’t have thought you’d ever want to come back here. Especially not now that you’re, y’know, _retired_.”

Sam looks back at him, offering a small smile. “It was a long time ago, Dean. I’m really okay.”

A server comes by, and then returns a minute later with coffees for both of them. Once he leaves Dean leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Okay, now explain the ‘how’ part. Were you out restocking the hunter cabins again?”

A blush creeps across Sam’s face and he clears his throat. “Um, no, actually. I was just up in Valley Falls, in Oregon.” He pauses, rubbing a hand at the back of his head and smiling slightly. “Eileen’s got a little place up there.”

“Eileen, really?” Dean’s face busts out in a broad grin. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, shut up,” Sam says, clearing his throat. “I’ve been up there the last week or so, little vacation I guess.”

“Way to go Sammy,” Dean says. “How long’s that been going on?”

“Uhh, few months. I mean, it’s still new and all, but you know. I like her. A lot,” he says, the blush returning to his cheeks.

Happiness swells up in Dean’s chest. “Good. That’s good, Sammy.”

“Yeah, well anyway,” he says. “Then you called yesterday and I dunno, I thought it might be nice to come back here. I asked Jody to man the phones and drove down last night. I just thought, you know, it’s been a while since I’ve worked a job, and you guys haven’t been back to the bunker since before Christmas.”

Dean huffs a breath and takes a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, we’ve been going pretty well non-stop the last couple months.”

Sam cracks a smile. “Cas wearing you out, is he?”

Dean chokes and splutters on his coffee, spattering it up on his face a bit. Sam gives him a puzzled look and silently hands across a napkin.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, guy’s pretty obsessed. With the job,” he says, wiping the drops off his burning face. “I’ve been thinking we need a vacation too. Maybe once we wrap this one.”

“Good idea,” Sam says.

The server steps back up to the table. “You guys know what you want?”

“Yeah, I’ll have the BLT, extra tomato, and fries,” Sam says.

“Two cheeseburgers; one with extra onions, one with no mustard, fries with both,” Dean says, pointing to the empty chair beside him. “We’ve got a third coming.”

“You got it,” he says, and walks away.

Dean turns back to Sam to find he has an amused look on his face. “What?”

“Did you – did you just order for Cas?”

Dean flushes. “What? He orders the same thing everywhere we go.”

Sam shakes his head. “Alright, whatever. So, get me up to speed on this case. Something’s knocking off the higher-ups at the school.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Three fancy-pants moneybags on the board of trustees, and now the CFO.”

“Any other link between them, besides the school? Motive?”

“Maybe,” Dean frowns thoughtfully. “There was a ruling by the board about a month ago to cut funding for a couple different programs. It was a pretty unpopular decision; lots of people think the board’s just trying to line their own pockets. And apparently they’re jacking up tuition and student fees too.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well that’s nothing new. Colleges are businesses, they’re out to make a profit.”

“Mmhmm, corruption. See, that’s why I never went for higher education,” Dean says.

“Oh, was that why?”

Dean shrugs. “That and my complete lack of aptitude. Anyway, I’m sure the board’s made their share of enemies, but I can’t think of any of the resident ghosts who would take it personally.”

“Alright,” Sam says, pulling out his tablet. “Then we keep digging for another link. Or another dead body.”

Cas arrives about ten minutes later, sliding up into the chair beside Dean. He reaches across the table and snags Dean’s coffee cup, draining it.

Dean rolls his eyes just as the server comes up with their plates. “Thanks,” he says as the server sets them down. “And can we get some coffee refills too?”

“You bet,” he says.

“Thirsty?” Dean asks Cas after the server leaves.

“Yes,” Cas says, and starts in on his fries. “The custodian didn’t see anything; he came in to fix Morgan Hoefnagel’s sink, but he left at least an hour before the coroner’s time of death.”

“So we got nothing,” Sam says, disappointed.

“Not from him,” Cas says, picking up his burger. “But I think I’ve found us another witness to talk to.”

 

 

 

 

Tim Chen begrudgingly lets them into his home an hour later. “I told you everything I know earlier,” he says, frowning at Cas. “I thought I was in the clear.”

“Yeah, we think so, Mr. Chen,” Dean says. “But we’d like to talk to your daughter too, if you don’t mind. It’s possible she saw something.”

Tim frowns again. “She wasn’t anywhere near him, she stayed in my office.”

Sam nods. “Yes, now in your statement to my colleague here, you said you left your shift early, to take her home.”

“That’s right,” he says. “She wasn’t feeling well.”

“We’d just like to ask her a few questions,” Cas says. “We won’t take long.”

Tim looks at them distrustfully, then jerks his head. “Alright fine, she’s just in here.”

Grace Chen is sitting on the living room carpet, stuffed animals all around her. When they walk in her father guides her to sit beside him on the sofa. She stares up at them all, eyes wide and with her hands clasped between her knees.

“It’s okay, sweetie, these men just want to talk to you for a little bit.”

Dean and Sam stay back in the doorway, and Cas steps up to the couch and squats in front of her.

“Hello, Grace,” he smiles, voice soft. “That’s a very pretty name. My name’s Cas.”

Dean feels his heart seize up, and Grace gives Cas a tiny smile back.

“I wanted to ask you about the night a few days ago, when you went to work with your dad. Do you remember that?”

Grace nods. “I have to go with him sometimes, when my mommy’s working.”

Cas nods sagely. “That sounds kind of boring. Your dad says you stayed in his office; did you do anything fun?”

“I was reading,” she points to a pile of colourful picture books on the ground beside her stuffed animals. “Sometimes I colour, too.”

Cas nods. “But then you felt sick, right?”

“I got all shivery,” she says. “And my head hurt.”

“Shivery?” Cas asks. “Like you were cold?”

She nods again. “And then the lady came in.”

“What lady?” Tim asks. “You never said there was somebody else there.”

“The lady in the pretty dress, the one from the picture in the hall,” Grace says, looking up at her father. “She asked me what I was reading, and I told her.” She turns back to Cas. “It was _The Paper Bag Princess_.”

Cas smiles broadly. “That’s a good one. Did the lady say anything else?”

She shakes her head. “No, she just smiled at me and left. Then my daddy came back and I said I wanted to go home, ‘cause I still wasn’t feeling good.”

“Okay,” Cas says. “Thank you, Grace.” He stands and walks back over to Dean and Sam in the doorway. Tim gets up off the couch and joins them.

“Do you know who she might have been talking about? The lady in the dress?” Dean asks.

Tim shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. Hundreds of people work in that building though, it could’ve been anybody.”

“What about the pictures in the hallway?” Cas asks. “Grace said the woman was in one of the pictures.”

Tim shrugs. “There’s tons of pictures all around. Paintings and newspaper clippings and photographs. Sorry.”

Dean glances at Sam, who’s looking thoughtful. Then he reaches out to shake Tim’s hand. “Okay, well, it’s something. Thank you, Mr. Chen. We’ll get out of your hair.”

They head back outside to the cars, and Sam jumps ahead to pull a file out of the Impala’s back seat. Dean slows Cas up with a light hand on his arm. “Hey,” he says softly. “Nice job in there. You were good with her.”

Cas smiles then shrugs. “I like kids.”

Dean gazes at him a little longer, then looks away reluctantly when Sam comes walking the few steps back up to them, his nose in a file.

“So that office, it was in the Main Quad, right?” he asks.

Dean frowns. “Yeah, that sounds right. Why, you got something?”

“Maybe. A hunch. Let’s get back there.”

 

 

 

 

Tim Chen’s office is on the ground floor of one of the administration buildings. Sam leads the way down a long hallway lined with paintings and photographs.

“He wasn’t kidding about the pictures. How’re we going to narrow this down?” Dean asks.

“If I’m right, we don’t have to,” Sam says, eyes scanning the walls. He pulls up in front of a large Victorian portrait of a woman in a white dress. “Bingo.”

Cas squints down at the placard. “Jane Lathrop Stanford, 1881,” he reads.

“Whoa, Stanford as in ‘Stanford?’” Dean asks.

Sam turns around, beaming. “No way. No way, dude. It’s Jane Stanford.”

Dean can’t help but grin back at him. He’s missed this. “Care to share with the class, Sam?”

“Jane Stanford is only the founder of this whole school, and also one of America’s great unsolved murders,” Sam says. “She was poisoned in a Hawaii hotel in 1905, and the killer was never caught.” He looks up then, realization on his face. “This totally explains the bodies.”

Dean shakes his head. “All the tox screens came back negative on each of our vics. None of them were poisoned.”

“No,” Sam says. “But the way the bodies were left, with the faces all frozen and the limbs contorted like that? Those are classic signs of strychnine poisoning. It’s the same way Jane died.”

“Okay,” Cas says. “So why would Jane Stanford’s ghost be killing the school’s administration?”

“Yeah, and what woke her up now, more than a century later?” Dean asks.

Sam turns to Dean. “You said the board recently decided to cut some funding, right? Do you remember what programs?”

“Some arts programs, I believe,” Cas says. “And History.”

Sam nods. “Jane Stanford loved this school, she valued education really highly. Once when the school was losing money, she sold off her own personal collection of jewellery to pay for textbooks.”

“Okay, so if she thought that the board was defunding education for a money grab, she’d be pissed enough to snap,” Dean says. “Works for me. Any idea where she’s planted?”

Sam grins. “I’ll show you.”

They follow him out of the building and across the quad, dodging throngs of students. They step onto a footpath that winds through a grove of trees, then a few minutes later they come to a clearing with a stately mausoleum at one end.

“Stanford Mausoleum,” Sam says.

“Classy,” Dean says. “Okay, easy peasy. We come back in a few hours for a good old salt ‘n burn. No sweat.”

“Is it usually guarded?” Cas asks.

“No,” Sam says. “Only for the annual Halloween mausoleum party.”

“Extra classy,” Dean says. “Very respectful.”

Sam stays looking at the mausoleum, a distant sort of look on his face. “I only ever went the once, Jess dragged me along.” He looks over at Dean. “The night you came and got me.”

Dean swallows. “Long time ago.”

Sam nods, then smiles. “Yeah, it was.”

 

 

 

 

They kill time until dark back at the motel, talking idly with the tv on low in the background. Sam had dropped his bag down on the pull-out couch when he came in, and Dean’s been trying not to stare at it.

He could casually suggest that Sam take the other bed, instead of the torture device disguised as a floral futon. He and Cas don’t mind sharing; they’re all adults, and it’s not like Dean and Sam never had to share a bed over the years. No big deal.

Or he could just ask Sam to get his own room; he could put on his big boy pants and just say it. _Hey, Sam. Me and Cas have been sleeping together for the last six weeks. I’m 100% in love with him, and if you wouldn’t mind getting a room of your own, preferably several doors down from ours, I’d appreciate it._

Yeah, that’s gonna happen.

“Who are you texting?” Cas asks, when Sam’s phone buzzes for probably the hundredth time.

Dean pulls himself away from his spiraling thoughts. “Oh, he’s texting his _girlfriend_.”

“Really?” Cas asks curiously.

“Shut up, Dean. What are you, twelve?”

Dean turns to Cas and waggles his eyebrows. “ _Eileen_.”

Cas smiles and turns to Sam. “Really? I’m very happy for you, Sam.”

Sam blushes and looks down at his phone. “Thanks, Cas,” he mumbles. “I left Sadie with her, and I’m just making sure Eileen’s got her dinner planned out right. Sadie’s got a very sensitive stomach.”

Dean snorts. “I don’t know who’s got you more whipped, the girl or the dog.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “That’s funny.”

“Speaking of dinner, I’m going to go pick up some takeout,” Cas says.

Sam digs the truck’s keys out of his pocket and tosses them over. “See if Tommy Thai is still in business.”

Dean shakes his head as Cas leaves. “Man, any excuse to drive that truck. I don’t know where I went wrong.”

“Yeah, you sure can pick ‘em,” Sam says.

Dean’s heartrate kicks into high gear. “What d’you mean?”

Sam shrugs. “Nothing.” His phone buzzes again and he looks down, smiling softly as he types out his reply.

Deciding a change of subject is the best thing for his nerves, Dean nods down to the phone. “I’m glad you’re happy, Sam.”

Sam looks up at him and squints. “We doing the chick flick thing?”

“Shut up. Look, I just wanna make sure you’re really good,” Dean says, leaning forward. “I mean, you’re just starting this new thing with Eileen, and then you come back here, where I’m sure you’re seeing Jess around every corner. I mean, if you’re wanting. . . closure, or whatever, I get it, but –”

“It’s not closure, Dean,” Sam says. “I’ve had that for a long time.” He looks away for a moment, hand going up to the back of his head. “And you know, a part of me still loves Jess. A part of me is always going to love her. But, the guy I am now and the guy I was then are two totally different people. It’s been almost thirteen years, Dean.”

Dean tilts his head, considering. “Okay, I get it. But I dunno, you seemed pretty eager to come back here.”

Sam frowns thoughtfully. “I think I just needed to make sure I could. You know, starting this new thing with Eileen,” he smiles to himself, “I wanted to know I could come back here and face this stuff and be okay.” He looks Dean in the eye. “And I am, Dean. I’m okay.”

The warmth in Dean’s chest is flaring bright again. He’s so damn proud of his little brother. “Okay,” he says, smiling.

Sam nods and smiles back.

This is the moment, Dean thinks, and his heart starts to pound again. He’s gonna tell Sam, gonna tell him that he’s found someone too, and they can share this and for the first time they can both be really, actually happy.

“Alright, we done with the chick flick moment?” Sam asks, teasing. “You’re getting soft in your old age.”

Dean swallows. “Yeah, yeah.”

He’s such a chicken shit.

 

 

 

 

There’s a certain sense of nostalgia for Dean when they all pile out of the Impala, shotguns and salt in hand.

“Just like old times, huh?” he says, then nudges Sam. “You’ve gotta miss this a little.”

Sam smiles. “Maybe a little.”

It doesn’t take them long; Cas picks the padlock on the door and they all heave the marble cover off the tomb. Jane Stanford’s bones are aflame a moment later.

“Man, am I glad this was a mausoleum,” Sam says as they walk back to the car. “I don’t think I’m in shape to dig up a grave anymore.”

“Who’s goin’ soft now?” Dean asks.

They arrive back at the motel, and Sam stumbles to the pull-out. “I think I’m gonna crash, I drove all last night.” He doesn’t even wait to unfold it, just flops down fully dressed.

Cas finds Dean’s eyes, waiting to follow his lead.

Dean’s heart is pounding again, but he can’t make the words come out. He pulls his eyes away from Cas guiltily, and walks over to Sam, slapping his shoulder. “Get up and actually pull the bed out, Sasquatch, or your poor out-of-shape back’s gonna be a disaster for your drive home tomorrow.”

Sam grumbles but heaves himself up, helping Dean unfold the bed. The three of them get ready to turn in, and Sam hits the light switch when they’re all down. “Night guys,” he says.

Dean’s been avoiding Cas’ gaze, but he finally looks across to him on the other bed. He tries to apologize as best he can without words, but in the dim light he can see Cas smiling at him gently, like he understands. It almost makes him feel worse. Cas shouldn’t have to put up with his stupid, insecure hang-ups.

But he turns away, curling up on his side.

 

 

 

 

Dean’s slept alone almost his entire life. Other than when he was with Cassie and Lisa, he always bailed on his hookups before they could get to the ‘after’ part. But this is the first time since he and Cas got together Dean’s woken up without him. Even the one night they went to bed angry – after Cas had pulled a stupid reckless stunt with a vamp and nearly got himself killed – Dean had crawled into Cas’ bed halfway through the night and kissed apologies into his skin.

It takes him a few moments of patting the mattress beside him before he remembers, and Dean blinks his eyes open to look across at the other bed. Cas is still asleep, facing away from him with the covers drawn up tight around his shoulders. Sam is up though, already dressed and slipping his boots on.

“Hey,” he whispers. “I’m gonna go get us some breakfast.”

Dean nods, yawning, and Sam heads out the door. Dean hears the truck start up a moment later, and then he’s out of the bed, moving across to Cas.

Sleep still hasn’t been coming easy to Cas, so Dean doesn’t really want to wake him, but it’s been a whole day since Dean’s kissed him and that’s apparently longer than he can handle. He slides under the covers and inches close to Cas, dropping light kisses to the back of his neck and his shoulder through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. Dean palms his hip and reaches further around to kiss his throat and his cheek.

Cas hums and lets Dean pull him over. “Dean?”

“Who were you expecting, Officer _Erin_?”

“Shut up. Where’s Sam?” he asks sleepily, eyes still closed.

“Out getting us all breakfast before he hits the road,” Dean says. Then he leans down and presses a slow, deep kiss to Cas’ lips. “I’m sorry.”

Cas pulls away and opens his eyes. “You don’t want him to know.” There’s no judgement or hurt in his voice, it’s just a statement.

Dean meets his gaze a while, then drops his forehead down to Cas’ shoulder. “I do, actually. I want him to know. I just don’t want to tell him.” He looks back up with a wince. “Does that make sense?”

“Sort of.” He looks at Dean carefully. “I know it’s. . . complicated for you, me being a man.”

“It’s not that,” Dean says, and Cas gives him a look. “Okay, it’s not _only_ that,” he amends. “It’s not that I think Sam wouldn’t be cool with it. He’d be happy, actually. I just don’t know how to have that conversation.”

Cas nods, and brings his thumb up to run along Dean’s chin.

“And as for the other stuff, the PDA and all that. . .” Cas tilts his head in question and Dean rolls his eyes. “Public Displays of Affection. Anyway, I’m working on it,” he mumbles. “I’ve got a lot of shitty-childhood crap to dig through there, but I’m trying. And um,” he casts his eyes downward. “I dunno, I just want to keep this to ourselves a bit longer. I kinda like having something for myself.” He blushes. “Selfish.”

Cas tilts Dean’s head up with the finger under his chin, and the way he’s looking at him is making Dean’s heart do barrel-rolls. “It’s not,” he says softly, then he pulls Dean down and kisses him.

Dean lets himself get swept away, reveling in the feel of Cas’ stubble catching on his cheeks and chin. His hand starts to instinctually travel around from Cas’ hip to his ass, but Cas breaks his mouth away.

“I don’t think we have time for that,” he teases, then frowns. “Besides, you need to brush your teeth.”

“And they say romance is dead.”

Cas gives him a look, and Dean sighs and heaves himself out of bed and heads into the bathroom. He hears Sam pull into the lot a minute later and he steps back out, toothbrush hanging from his mouth.

Sam opens the door and grimaces at them both. “Bad news, guys.” He gestures with his phone. “We’ve got another one.”

 

 

 

 

The entire campus is buzzing with the news that President Andrew Whitten has been found dead in his home. Predictably, they find nothing at the scene besides the spiking EMF and an eerily contorted corpse, so they head over to the library to keep digging.

“Damnit,” Dean says, pulling down a biography from a shelf. “There’s got to be another piece of her still around somewhere.”

“It’s possible,” Sam says. “The school probably kept a lot of her personal effects.”

“Why the President?” Cas asks. “He wouldn’t have been directly involved with the board’s ruling, would he?”

Sam pauses, thinking. “Not directly, no. Maybe there’s another reason for him.”

“Like what?” Dean asks.

“Well, lots of people think the person behind Jane’s death was David Starr Jordan. He was the university’s president at the time, but rumour was Jane was going to fire him.”

“So he poisoned her?” Cas says.

Sam shrugs. “If he didn’t, he certainly went to a lot of trouble to hush it all up. He went down to Hawaii himself and hired his own doctor, who decided her cause of death was heart failure.”

Dean nods. “’Kay, that fits.”

“Right. Then when it went to trial he pushed the jury to call it accidental. At the time Stanford was still losing money, so it’s possible he was just trying to protect the school’s reputation, but. . .”

“But the fact that the current president was just knocked off probably means it was Jordan after all,” Dean says. “Okay well, that’s really interesting stuff, but we still have no idea what Jane’s spirit’s stuck to.”

“Yeah, I dunno, it could be anything,” Sam says.

Cas is staring at an open book, then he looks up at Sam thoughtfully. “Sam, you said yesterday that Jane Stanford once sold her jewellery collection to pay for textbooks.” He raises his eyebrows. “Do you know what happened to it?”

 

 

 

 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

They stand in dismay in the middle of the Cantor Museum, looking at a sealed glass display case full of ornate jewellery.

Cas looks at the brochure he’d picked up at the door. “It says the collection was reacquired by the museum in 1922 and is now valued at approximately $20 million.”

Sam looks at the case. “Guys, this is all wired up and like, environmentally controlled.” He glances around the hall. “There’s security guards everywhere. No way we’re nabbing these.”

Cas jerks his head back towards the exit. “Maybe we should discuss our plans for grand larceny somewhere else,” he says lowly.

They head back outside, sitting down at a table in the quad. Dean slumps, dropping his head into his crossed arms. “I say we just set fire to the whole building.”

“I think that level of property damage is excessive, even for us,” Cas says.

“What’s the alternative?” Dean asks, looking back up. “We gonna Ocean’s 11 a museum? I mean, I’ve always wanted to work a jewel heist, but bodies are dropping fast; I don’t know if we have time to plan something this big.”

Sam frowns. “I don’t know that it’s the jewellery.”

“What d’you mean?”

He shakes his head. “Why now? The collection’s been back here since the 20s, why’s Jane Stanford only waking up now?”

“The board ruling. You said she’d be pissed they’re mismanaging the school’s money,” Dean says.

“Well yeah, she would, but this isn’t the first time educational funding’s been cut. This kind of thing happens every couple years, and it’s not like there’s never been corruption in the administration before.”

“Alright,” Cas says. “So we keep looking for something else.”

 

 

 

 

It’s late afternoon before Dean finally finds it on the Stanford website. “Son of a bitch, really?” he says. “So, Jane Stanford died in a hotel in Hawaii, right?”

“Right,” Cas says, looking up tiredly from a pile of journal articles.

“Okay, so she was brought back here to be buried, but the hotel kept a couple of her things. Specifically, a hat and a pair of gloves.”

Sam stares at him. “We have to go to Hawaii?”

“That’d be nice, but no. It’s right here on the freakin’ home page,” he points at the laptop. “The hat and gloves are here on loan from the Hawaii Historical Society. They arrived three weeks ago.”

Sam grins. “Alright, nice! Where are they?”

“Get this,” Dean says. “They’re here. They’re being displayed on the library’s third floor. Right under our freakin’ noses.”

“Okay, so we try this again,” Cas says. “Wait until the library closes, come back, and destroy them.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “No sweat.”

 

 

 

 

It’s after 1:00am when the library finally closes and they sneak back inside. Unfortunately, their plans for a quick and easy infiltration are thwarted by the presence of one particular, inappropriately flirty campus police officer on guard duty.

“Perfect,” Dean groans, ducking back around a shelf.

Sam’s face twitches. “Hey Cas, why don’t you go distract her?” he whispers.

Cas looks moderately terrified. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

“All part of the job, Cas,” Dean slaps him on the arm. “Go get ‘er, tiger.”

Cas glares at him, and Dean winks back.

Cas sighs, then hands his salt gun to Dean and squares his shoulders. He rounds the corner of the bookshelf and calls out to her. “Good evening, Officer Braimah.”

She startles in surprise, then gives him a dazzling smile. “Agent Fraser! What a surprise, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says.

She tsks slightly. “There was some really horrible vandalism last night at the Stanford Mausoleum. My supervisor’s worried they’re going to try again, so he’s got a few of us posted around other historical spots and artefacts.”

“Oh, that’s. . . terrible,” Cas says, and Dean stifles a snort.

“Isn’t it?” she asks. “I’m here looking after these old bits of clothes,” she gestures to the display behind her. “Not the most glamourous job, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Cas says. “I’m sure your job is very exciting.”

Laughter is threatening to bubble up in Dean again, so he turns away. Sam is staring at him, his expression somewhere between amused and bewildered.

“What’s your face doing?” Dean whispers.

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, “You’re just. . . nothing, never mind.”

Cas is starting to lead Braimah away down the aisle, so Dean jerks his head and he and Sam sneak around behind them and move up to the display. The hat and gloves are enclosed in a glass box, but it’s only a simple lock at the bottom. Sam pulls out his lock pick, and then the lights start to flicker.

“Crap,” Dean mutters. “Better get a move on, Sam.”

“I’m going,” he says, a puff of condensation leaving his mouth. “There, almost –”

Sam is thrown back from the display case, slamming hard into the row of shelves behind him with a loud crash.

“Damnit!” Dean says. He holds his shotgun up high, eyes scanning the rows on either side, but there’s no sign of Jane. Sam’s groaning but scrambling to his feet when Cas comes running back down the aisle, Braimah right behind him. He holds out his hand and Dean tosses him his shotgun.

“What are you doing?” Braimah yells, drawing her own weapon. Then her eyes go wide.

“Dean, _down_ ,” Cas says, pulling up his gun, and Dean drops to the floor and looks behind him. Jane Stanford is there, tall and imposing in a black Victorian gown. The shotgun blast sails over Dean’s head and hits her square in the chest. She dissipates into mist.

Sam stumbles back over to the display as Dean gets to his feet and draws his gun up in front of him. “Nice shot,” he says, and Cas smirks. “How you doin,’ Officer?”

Braimah is frozen, her gun pointed at the spot Jane’s ghost has vacated. Her mouth is hanging open slightly as she turns to look at Cas. “What was that?”

Just then, a book flies off a shelf and whacks hard into the back of Dean’s head. “Ow! Sonofa –” he starts, ducking and throwing a hand up to shield himself as more books come pelting off the shelves.

Sam’s struggling with the lock when he heaves a frustrated growl. “Screw it,” he says, then steps back from the case and aims his shotgun. “Watch your eyes!” he calls, then fires at the glass.

“What are you _doing_?” Braimah yells again, but Sam ignores her and fumbles for the lighter fluid and salt in his coat. Jane reappears behind him, reaching out a hand to his back.

“Hey!” Dean calls, and fires his gun, but this time she disappears before it hits her. The books start coming harder and faster, aiming straight for Sam.

Dean and Cas are trying to bat them away when a heavy wooden table comes hurling through the air. Dean calls out in alarm but it slams square into Cas; his shotgun is knocked from his hands and he’s thrown across the room, landing with a heavy crash. He doesn’t move.

“ _Cas_!” Dean yells, panic gripping his heart. He fights his way over piles of books and the table’s debris to get to Cas’ side. He’s almost reached him when he feels an icy hand grip his back and white-hot pain sears through him, arching his spine and curling his hands and feet.

Dimly, Dean hears a shotgun blast and then the pain’s gone just as abruptly as it came. He turns back around, panting, to see Officer Braimah with Cas’ shotgun in her hands, eyes still wide but with her mouth a set and determined line.

“Thanks,” he says. She nods, then Jane rushes up behind her, hand outstretched again.

Dean fumbles to bring his gun up but then there’s a bright burst of flame. Jane screams loud and long, and then she’s gone.

All the books in the air drop unceremoniously to the ground. Sam is on his knees in front of the flaming display case, looking battered but mostly alright. Dean whirls back around to Cas, who’s lying still on the floor, partially buried. Heart in his throat, Dean pushes the debris off him and rolls him over.

“Cas? Cas, hey, hey hey look at me,” Dean says quickly, panicked hands coming up to frame Cas’ face. There’s blood dripping down his temple. “Wake up, man.”

Cas scrunches up his brow and relief floods through Dean with enough force he feels a little dizzy. “Cas? Cas, hey,” he says again, drawing the pad of his thumb slowly across Cas’ cheekbone. “Take it easy, go slow.”

Cas groggily opens his eyes, then he squeezes them shut again and throws a hand up to his head. “That hurt,” he says, teeth gritted.

Dean exhales, his whole body sagging with relief. “Don’t do that again,” he says quietly.

“I’ll do my best,” Cas says wryly.

There’s movement and footsteps behind him, and Dean remembers they’ve got an audience. He finds he doesn’t care that much. “C’mere,” he says, and threads an arm under Cas’ back to haul him to his feet. Cas slings an arm around his shoulders and they stand pressed tight together, Dean’s hand gripping at Cas’ waist.

Sam’s gathering up the guns, but he looks up when they stand. “You okay, Cas?”

Cas nods, eyes still hazy.

“Nice shootin’ there, Officer Braimah,” Dean says.

She stares between the three of them, her eyes still like saucers. “That was a ghost.”

Sam claps a hand down on her shoulder. “Yep.”

She gulps and nods, very slowly. “Ghosts.”

“Yep, ghosts. But she shouldn’t give you any more trouble,” Dean says. “Can’t really help you with the rest of this, though,” he nods his head to the mess all around them.

Braimah looks at the books and broken furniture vaguely, then shakes her head and looks back up at Cas. “Is he gonna be okay?”

Dean tightens his grip on Cas’ waist. “Yeah. I got him.”

 

 

 

 

Cas downs a few aspirin and crawls into bed the moment they get back to the motel room. Sam ducks into the bathroom to change, re-emerging a moment later with an icepack held to his neck.

“I definitely don’t miss this part,” he groans, and heads over to the pull-out. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

Dean’s in good shape, considering, but he takes a moment in the bathroom anyway, washing his face with cold water and trying not to think of Cas lying motionless on the library floor.

This is a dangerous job. It’s not the first time either of them have been hurt and it won’t be the last. But he doesn’t ever want to get used to the feeling of dread and panic that twisted like a fist around his heart.

Sam’s already snoring when he comes out of the bathroom. Cas is out too, flat on his back with his eyes scrunched tight and a bandage taped to his temple and no way in hell is Dean sleeping on his own tonight.

He flicks off the lights and slips into bed beside Cas, draping an arm across his chest and tangling their legs together. His pulse races nervously; despite the sheets drawn up around them he feels exposed. They’re in full view of Sam; he’ll see them instantly if he wakes up. But Dean focuses on the rise and fall of Cas’ chest, the steady thump of his heart beneath Dean’s hand. He exhales deeply through his nose, ducks his head down to rest on Cas’ shoulder, and closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

It’s only a few hours later that Dean wakes up, squinting at the sunlight pouring through the thin curtains. Cas turned onto his side sometime in the night, and Dean’s spooned up against his back, arm slung low across his waist. Dean looks over, and his stomach twists in a knot when he sees that the pull-out is empty. Sam saw them – there’s no way he couldn’t have.

There’s movement outside the window, and Dean looks out to see Sam sitting on Baby’s hood, facing the parking lot and drinking from a paper cup of coffee. Dean closes his eyes and draws in a fortifying breath, then eases away from Cas as carefully as he can and climbs out of the bed. He tugs on a pair of jeans and slips into his shoes before tiptoeing out the door, pulling it quietly shut behind him and joining Sam on the car.

“Hey,” Sam says, handing him a cup from the tray on his other side. “Cas still out?”

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, I don’t wanna wake him yet. He doesn’t sleep well, usually.”

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and Dean doesn’t either, he just drinks his coffee and tries to ignore the blood rushing loudly in his ears. A minute goes by with neither of them speaking, and hey, if they’re gonna just skip the whole talking-about-it thing that’s fine with him.

“So, you heading home now? Or back up to Oregon?” he asks.

Sam looks at him a moment. “Home. Eileen’s meeting me there day after tomorrow with Sadie.”

“Nice,” Dean says. “Or, you know, you could stay out here with us a while longer. It’s been good having you back, brother.”

Sam chuckles. “Not that this wasn’t a barrel of laughs, but I’m good, really. Semi-retirement’s working out for me pretty well. And really well for my back,” he says, wincing and rolling his shoulders. “I am so not looking forward to this drive.”

“Well well well,” Dean tsks. “Look at you. Got yourself all set up, got a dog, got the girl.”

“Yeah, not too bad, considering,” he says. They’re quiet for a moment more before he speaks again, words deliberate. “It’s nice, you know, having somebody. Makes things easier. Better.”

Dean’s heartrate ratchets up again. “Yeah, yeah I’m sure it does,” he says. He knows what he’s supposed to say next, but the words are all stuck in his throat. He keeps silent and takes another nervous swig of coffee.

After a while Sam shifts himself off the hood and downs the rest of his cup. “Well I think I’m gonna take off, I wanna try to get halfway back by the end of the day.” He pitches his empty cup at a garbage can. “Unless there was something else you wanted to talk about?” he asks, eyes wide and innocent.

“No,” Dean says quickly, way too quickly.

“Okay,” Sam nods, smiling a little sadly. “Well, take care of yourself, man,” he says, pulling Dean into a hug and slapping his back. “Say bye to Cas for me.”

“Yeah, sure. And you too Sammy,” Dean mumbles, gripping him tightly.

Sam pulls free and heads for the truck, duffelbag in hand. He takes a step or two away, then he pauses and turns around. “You know, if there ever _is_ something you want to talk about –” he says, finding Dean’s eyes, “– you always can. Just so you know.” He smiles, small and fond.

Gratitude wells up in Dean’s chest, and he swallows and meets his brother’s eyes. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam nods, raising a hand in farewell. Dean sits back on the hood to watch him go, pulling out of the parking lot and heading East toward home. Once the truck’s rattled out of sight Dean picks up the coffee tray and heads back inside. He sets it down on the table, shucks his shoes and jeans, and crawls right back into bed, pulling Cas tight into his arms and burying his face in his hair.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hefty helping of brother time. I ship Sam with Eileen, obviously, but I mostly ship him with happiness.
> 
> Please note: I have never been to Stanford. All of my information is gained through the most basic googling. Sorry for any inaccuracies. Also I’ve adapted some IRL ghost stories / encounters from Stanford too. And I’ve taken plenty of liberties with the Jane Stanford Jewels. Basically I make shit up to suit my own devious purposes.
> 
> Thanks for reading, friends.  
> I'm always a slut for kudos.  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG


	11. Track 11: The Rain Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a summer when Dean was maybe 11 or 12, and his Dad had ditched him and Sam with Bobby. They spent most of their time at the junkyard in Sioux Falls, but there were two weeks when Bobby took them up to his cabin in the Black Hills. It was there that Bobby had taught them to fish, and failed to teach them to hunt – normal hunting, that is. The cabin had functioned as a hunter crash site for a while, and thanks to Sam it was up and running again. Dean gets the idea to swing through for a day after he and Cas wrap up an embarrassingly easy job in northern Wyoming involving one solitary (and incredibly dumb) ghoul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . I confess to being a little on the nose with the title of this chapter.

I've felt the coldness of my winter  
I never thought it would ever go. I cursed the gloom that set upon us, 'pon us, 'pon us...  
But I know that I love you so. But I know that I love you so.

 

 

There was a summer when Dean was maybe 11 or 12, and his Dad had ditched him and Sam with Bobby. They spent most of their time at the junkyard in Sioux Falls, but there were two weeks when Bobby took them up to his cabin in the Black Hills. It was there that Bobby had taught them to fish, and failed to teach them to hunt – _normal_ hunting, that is. The cabin had functioned as a hunter crash site for a while, and thanks to Sam it was up and running again. Dean gets the idea to swing through for a day after he and Cas wrap up an embarrassingly easy job in northern Wyoming involving one solitary (and incredibly dumb) ghoul.

They make it in by late afternoon. The driveway leading into the cabin is basically one long stretch of mud that dips up and down and winds through thick trees, and it all looks just the same as it did when Dean was a kid.

Sam did a good job when he set the place up again; it’s got a working generator, running water, and minus a layer of dust it’s clean and tidy. They unload their duffels, plus a couple bags of groceries.

“Do you want help with dinner?” Cas asks, moving their bags into one of the bedrooms.

Dean shakes his head. “No dinner yet. C’mon, grab your coat.”

Cas tilts his head curiously, but slips his jacket back on. Dean leads him outside, then towards a trailhead behind the cabin. It’s overgrown somewhat, but still recognizable. He grabs a long stick from the ground and starts bushwhacking his way through.

“Where are we going?” Cas asks.

“Shoulda made sure Sam cleaned this path up,” Dean says. “It’s fine, it’s not far.”

It takes a couple minutes, and he almost gets himself turned around, but the trees thin out and they come up to the lakeshore. The dock’s looking a little rickety and weather-worn, but still solid.

Cas draws up beside him and Dean turns to look at him, smiling broadly. “Huh? Not bad, right?” He tugs lightly on Cas’ sleeve and heads down the dock to sit at the end. They’re only just getting into March, so the water level’s still low enough he can dangle his feet off the end and still be well clear of the water. He leans back on his hands as Cas comes down to sit beside him.

Cas glances around the lake, his expression tranquil. Then he squints slightly. “I recognize this place.”

Dean looks at him, expression soft. “I wondered if you would.”

“I visited you here, in a dream.”

“Yep,” Dean says. “Like, a million years ago.”

Cas quirks the corner of his mouth. “Not _quite_ a million.”

Dean huffs. “Feels like a million.”

“Sometimes. But I don’t know,” Cas says. “To me, a million years ago feels like. . . a million years ago.”

“God, you’re so freakin’ old.”

Cas hums. “Yes I am.”

They sit in a comfortable silence for a while, Dean’s feet swinging gently above the water.

“I can see why you liked to dream about this,” Cas says. “It’s very peaceful.”

Dean inhales and closes his eyes, the cool wind hitting his face. “Yeah. I’ve got good memories here. It was like a real vacation, that summer with Bobby. We went weeks without sparring or target practice, we’d just goof off and swim and cook marshmallows. It was one of those times I actually got to feel like a kid.”

There’s another silent moment, then Dean feels a hand turn his cheek. When he opens his eyes Cas is close, looking back at him steadily. Dean smiles, then Cas pulls him in, kissing him deep.

They don’t break apart again until a particularly strong gust of wind hits them and Cas’ teeth start to chatter.

“Alright, c’mon,” Dean says reluctantly. He heaves himself up and extends one hand down to Cas. “Lemme make you dinner.”

 

 

 

 

A few hours later they’re side by side on the bed. Cas has already come, so he’s taking his time with Dean, teasing and torturing and leaving him scrabbling at the sheets.

Dean’s leg is slung up over Cas’ hip as Cas presses a steady finger into him. His other hand is wrapped around Dean’s cock, drawing up and down smoothly and swiping a thumb across the head on each pass. Panting, Dean ducks his head down to find Cas’ lips and kiss him dirty, then Cas pushes a second finger inside.

They’ve done this a few times now; Cas will gently circle Dean’s hole with a spit-slicked finger, lightly first then applying more pressure, before dipping in slow and easy. He’ll work in one finger, then two, drawing in and out and timing it with his mouth or his other hand, until finally he’ll find Dean’s prostate and Dean jackknifes on the bed and comes with a hoarse cry.

Tonight is no different; he feels the tension building as Cas speeds up the movements of his hands, so he reaches up and grips at Cas’ shoulder and his orgasm rips through him.

Usually at this point Dean will press Cas flat to the bed and suck him down, working him over with his tongue until Cas comes apart, his body quaking and his eyes like fire. But Cas is sated and smiling softly, and he gently pulls his fingers from Dean’s quivering body and presses light kisses to his chest.

Cas is always so careful with him, never pushing or asking for anything more, but Dean is ready for more. So ready, miles past ready, so ready he’s got the Walgreens receipt to prove it. He just has no idea how to ask for it.

 

 

 

 

It’s early when he wakes up, too early. It’s noisy too, and it takes Dean a moment to parse out the sounds he’s hearing. Loudest is the rain. The cabin’s got an aluminum roof and it’s pounding down hard enough that when he turns his attention to the ceiling it’s just one wall of white noise.

Closer to him though, is Cas’ ragged breathing. He’s sitting upright in the bed, quilts pooled down around his waist and his face in his hands.

“Hey, hey,” Dean says softly, and he brings his hand up to Cas’ back, rubbing gentle circles. “Slow, go slow.”

Cas doesn’t respond, but he starts taking in deeper breaths, pushing them out steadily.

“You’re okay,” Dean says, sitting up beside him. “We’re okay.”

Cas doesn’t like to be held right after, but he drops a hand from his face and reaches out for Dean’s wrist, squeezing it tightly.

“Slow, slow,” Dean repeats, and eventually Cas’ breathing evens out.

He scrubs his hand across his eyes, then turns to Dean, pale-faced.

“Hey,” Dean says.

Cas huffs a small, bitter laugh. “Hey.”

“C’mere,” Dean says, and leans back down, pulling Cas with him. They fold into each other; Cas slides a palm across Dean’s chest and tucks his head under his chin. Dean presses a kiss to his forehead and wraps his arms around Cas’ back, and for a while they just breathe together.

“Wanna tell me?” Dean asks.

Dean’s working on decoding Cas’ silences in the moments after his nightmares. Sometimes Cas talks and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he’ll get up and read or try to work whatever case they’re on, and sometimes he’ll stay in bed and cling tightly to Dean like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. When it’s Naomi he’ll push Dean down in the bed and kiss him until they’re both hard and gasping. When it’s Lucifer, he’ll stumble to the bathroom and vomit.

Cas swallows against Dean’s chest. “I think it was the sound of the rain that did it,” he says. “I thought it was drums.”

“Drums?” Dean frowns, puzzled.

“Something that happened. . . a long time ago.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Dean doesn’t push. He just drops another kiss to Cas’ head and runs a soothing hand down his back.

After a moment Cas starts to shift away.

“It’s still early,” Dean says. “We got nowhere to be right now. Stay.”

“We should start looking for a new job.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says tiredly. “But later. It’s like 5:00am.”

Cas sighs. “Alright, fine.”

He shuffles back in close, and the last thing Dean remembers before sleep claims him again is tracing idle patterns on the bare skin of Cas’ back.

 

 

 

 

Cas isn’t there when he wakes up next, and the rain is still pounding hard on the roof. It’s past 8:00am, but still so dark that when he sits up in bed Dean can see the faint blue glow of the laptop coming through the open door. He slips on sweatpants and a henley and staggers tiredly out of the bedroom. Cas is at the little kitchen table, eyes on the laptop screen.

“Hey. You didn’t get back to sleep, huh?”

Cas shakes his head, not looking up. “No. There’s coffee.”

Dean yawns and rubs his eyes, nodding. He heads towards the kitchen, stopping at the table to plant a quick kiss on Cas’ lips. He grabs the coffee pot and a mug from the shelf and comes to sit at the table. He fills both their cups and Cas absently nods his thanks.

“I haven’t come across a new job yet, and Sam doesn’t have anything for us either.”

Dean leans back in his chair. “Works for me. I wouldn’t wanna drive through this right now anyway,” he indicates the downpour outside the kitchen window.

Cas finally looks up, eyes going to the window too. “No. I suppose we wait it out.”

Dean smiles. “Perfect. Lazy, rainy day.”

Cas frowns at him. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Nothing, Cas. Absolutely nothing. That’s the beauty of a day off.”

Cas looks at him doubtfully. “We can’t do ‘nothing.’"

Dean rolls his eyes. “Okay, not _nothing_. First, I’m going to make pancakes. Then, I dunno, we watch a movie or read or play a frickin’ board game,” he says. Cas still looks unconvinced, so Dean leans forward in his seat and waggles his eyebrows. “Or, we get back in bed and have lots of sex.”

Cas cracks a smile. His eyes drift appreciatively over Dean’s shoulders and chest. “I think I could warm to that idea.”

Dean gives him a roguish grin, then heads into the kitchen to start on breakfast. “I’m tellin’ ya, Cas. Day off: endless possibilities.”

He doesn’t get very far with his preparations before he feels Cas coming up behind him, wrapping arms around his waist and dropping one hand to his crotch.

Dean only burns the pancakes a little.

 

 

 

 

They do eventually finish breakfast, and only get moderately sidetracked by Cas’ unfairly distracting obsession with maple syrup. After a slightly sticky shower they wind up on the couch, buried in blankets with the laptop on the coffee table. They’re both only half paying attention to the movie though; Dean’s dozing and Cas is looking over at the window every few minutes, frowning at the unrelenting rain.

“It’ll stop when it stops,” Dean says.

“That’s some very intelligent insight,” Cas says dryly.

Dean rolls his eyes and tugs Cas down closer to him. “Am I going to have to _distract_ you again? Watch the movie.”

Cas sighs, but turns his attention back to the screen.

They finish it, and then another, and then Cas announces loudly that he’s bored. He digs himself out of the blankets and walks over to a bookcase on the wall.

“Anything good over there?” Dean asks, picking at the last pieces of his popcorn.

Cas bends over to the bottom shelf and pulls out a cardboard box. “Well, it’s not a board game, but –”

“Oh, no way man. I am not doing a puzzle.”

“Why not?”

“Dude, _old people_ do puzzles,” Dean says.

“We went over this yesterday, Dean. I _am_ old.”

Dean’s about to shoot back a retort when his phone starts ringing. “Ooh, saved by the bell,” he says, and fishes it off the coffee table and answers on speakerphone. “Hey Sam.”

“Hey,” Sam says. He sounds a little harried. “I’ve got something. Demon omens, near St Cloud.”

Cas looks over and frowns, and Dean grimaces. “Damn. Alright, well, it’s coming down pretty bad here, I’m not wild about driving through it.”

There’s some shuffling on the other end of the phone. “Want me to put somebody else on it?”

“No, Sam, we’ll take it,” Cas says, and Dean fixes him with a look.

“Yeah, we got it,” Dean sighs. “This rain’s been going all day, it’ll probably let up soon. We’ll head out of here as soon as it does. In the meantime –” he looks pointedly at Cas, “– we are going to _enjoy_ our _day off_.”

Cas rolls his eyes.

Sam doesn’t seem to be listening and there’s more shuffling on his end. “Yeah, let me know when you head out,” he says, and hangs up.

Dean looks at Cas. “There, see? You got your wish,” he grumbles.

“Not quite,” Cas snaps back. “It’s still raining.”

Dean throws up his hands in defeat. “Alright, fine. We’ll go as soon as it lets up enough we can see through the windshield. Now, we gonna do this puzzle or what?”

Cas narrows his eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to.”

“Yeah, well, what else is there to do?” he says sourly.

 

 

 

 

They assemble the puzzle over an uncomfortable and mostly silent few hours. Cas goes back to checking the window every minute or two, and Dean silently grinds his teeth. The darkness of the day deepens and if anything, it starts to rain harder. Cas eventually abandons the puzzle and pulls out the laptop, looking into the disturbances in St Cloud himself.

Dean decides to try to clear his head by cooking them dinner. He calls Cas over when it’s done, and they eat their pasta in silence.

Cas picks up their bowls when they finish and heads over to wash them in the sink. Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “I can’t make it stop raining, Cas.”

Cas pauses, then turns away from the sink and crosses his arms. “Demon omens, Dean. We can’t afford to just sit here.”

“Yeah, that’s right, omens,” Dean says. “Not dead bodies, not missing people.”

“Not yet,” Cas counters.

“Cas, I get it, okay?” Dean says, frustration finally getting the better of him. “I hate feeling stuck too. But we’ll get there.”

“Yeah, fine,” Cas says, finality in his voice. He throws another glance at the window. “It’s not stopping tonight. I’m going to bed.” He marches off to the bedroom, closing the door firmly.

“Fucking Christ,” Dean snaps, resting his elbows on the table and putting his head in his hands. He stays there a while, then gets up and swipes a tumbler and a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. He downs a few fingers and is about to pour a second glass when he stops. He’s been better lately. In fact, he hasn’t really gone overboard since those few weeks after he’d kissed Cas for the first time.

Ever since they got together, things have been better – practically _everything_ ’s been better – and he hasn’t felt the _need_ to drink, not like he used to. Being with Cas hasn’t ‘fixed’ him, but what they have makes things easier. This. . . whatever this is right now, it’s a bump. And he can’t go crawling back into the bottle every time they hit a bump, or it’s never gonna work. Cas deserves better than that. Even if right now he’s being a pain in the ass.

Dean puts the bottle back in the cupboard and finishes washing the dishes. He takes care of the whole kitchen, too, just in case he’s got any residual anger left in him.

He hits the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth, then finally heads into the bedroom. The light’s off, but Cas is still awake, lying on his back and staring darkly at the ceiling. Dean strips to his boxers and climbs in, turning towards the centre of the bed.

“Tomorrow morning,” he says quietly. “We’ll leave first thing, no matter what the weather’s doing, okay?”

Cas angles his head to face him. Dean meets his eyes, pleading silently, and Cas’ expression softens a little. “Okay.”

Dean offers a small smile, which Cas almost returns. He turns his head back up to the ceiling and closes his eyes, and Dean tries to hide his disappointment by rolling over to face the other way. They lie there in silence a few moments before Dean feels Cas shifting. He moves up close to Dean’s back, reaching an arm across and tugging him in. Dean sighs quietly and shuts his eyes, trying to block out the loud hammering of the rain.

 

 

 

 

The next morning dawns just as dark and rainy as the previous day, but they pack up anyway and make a dash for the car. They take it slow down the road, and Dean grimaces as mud flings up from Baby’s spinning tires. Then they turn the first bend in the driveway, and Dean rolls them to a stop, heart sinking.

The road in front of them is completely washed out for a solid forty feet.

Dean turns to Cas. “Sorry, man. We’re not going anywhere.” He puts the car in reverse.

“What are you doing?” Cas asks.

“Heading back to the cabin. We can’t idle here, she’ll sink and get stuck.”

“Can’t we push forward? It might not be that deep.”

Dean gives a humourless laugh and starts backing up. “Famous last words. No way am I taking Baby through all that. Besides, even if it’s not deep, it’s mud, Cas. She’ll _definitely_ get stuck. We gotta tell Sam to pass the job onto someone else.”

Cas glares out the front window, and they’re silent all the way back to the cabin. Once he pulls her back up onto harder ground Dean climbs out of the car and grabs their bags. Cas follows him, getting out and slamming the passenger door, hard.

“Hey!” Dean yells, anger spiking. “Watch it!”

Cas glares at him, rain pounding down on both their heads. “You know, this wouldn’t be happening if we had my truck.”

Dean stares at him. “Your _truck_? Seriously? Are we actually having this argument right now?”

“No, we’re not,” Cas snaps, stalking past him and back up to the cabin door. Dean follows him in, but Cas keeps walking right into the bedroom and slams that door too.

Fuming, Dean aims a kick at one of the kitchen chairs, toppling it over. He steps up to the table and props his hands on the top, hanging his head and forcing himself to calm down.

After a few minutes of even breathing, he strips off his soaking wet jacket and pulls out his phone to call Sam.

“Hey, you headed out now?” Sam asks.

Dean sighs. “No, sorry man, you’ll have to get somebody else on St Cloud. Rain hasn’t let up and there’s a section of the road that’s washed out. We’re stuck.”

“Crap. Will you guys be okay in there?”

Dean steps away from the table and heads out the back door to stand on the porch. “Yeah, we brought in some supplies of our own and you left this place plenty stocked, so we’ll be fine a couple more days. Well,” he amends grimly, “we’ll be alive anyway. Jury’s out on ‘fine.’”

Sam pauses for a moment. “What’s goin’ on?”

Dean sighs, rubbing a hand at his eyes and leaning against the cabin wall. “Nothing. I dunno. Cas is a workaholic and I feel like the nagging wife.”

“I think a lot of couples go through that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, well I never thought _we_ would,” Dean says. Then he freezes, realizing what he’s basically just admitted to.

There’s a pause. “’Kay, now we’ve got that out of the way,” Sam says, sounding slightly amused. “. . . You need a minute?”

Dean feels his mouth opening and closing, but there’s no sound coming out. There’s a kind of whistling in his ears.

“Take your time,” Sam says kindly. “You good?”

“Uh,” Dean says. “You, uh, saw us, that last morning at Stanford.”

“I knew before then,” Sam says. “Lots of little things. The first morning, I saw you spend thirty seconds patting the empty mattress beside you with a big sappy pout on your face.”

Dean blushes furiously. “Um.”

“But mainly you just seemed happy. Like, really happy.”

Dean swallows. “I am,” he mumbles. “We are. Well, mostly.”

“Good,” Sam says, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice. “That’s really good, man.”

“Yeah,” Dean says.

“Now, you were saying: workaholic.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. He takes a steadying breath. “I dunno, it’s like he’s not happy unless we’ve got a case. Any time I try to get us to take a break, even for a day, he fights it.”

“Okay. Well, he wouldn’t be the first hunter to need the job. Present company included.”

Dean shakes his head. “I think it’s more than that.”

“Well, here’s a piece of totally obvious advice: have you tried talking about it?”

“Tried, yeah, but the guy just shuts down. He’s off hiding in the bedroom right now.”

Sam laughs. “Wow, you two really are perfect for each other.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, go figure,” he snorts.

“Alright,” Sam says. “Don’t worry about St Cloud, I’ll put Donna on it or something. You stay put. Take some time, try to talk to Cas.”

“’Kay,” Dean says. “Thanks, man.”

“Yeah.”

Dean hangs up, but stays outside for a while longer, watching the rain splatter off the muddy ground. Eventually the chill gets to be too much, so he heads back inside. He stares at the closed bedroom door for a minute, then squares his shoulders, walks over, and knocks.

“Cas? Can I come in?”

There’s silence on the other side. Chances are slim Cas is sleeping, so Dean knocks again.

“C’mon, man.”

There’s still no answer, and Dean feels a flash of irritation, but he forces a calm breath. “Alright, well, I’m out here when you wanna talk.”

He walks over to the couch and flings himself down, arms crossed, and watches the rain.

 

 

 

 

Dean apparently fell asleep at some point, because when he opens his eyes again it’s after 2:00pm. He sits up blearily, looks over, and notices that the bedroom door is half open.

“Cas?” Dean asks, standing and walking over. He pushes the door wide but the room’s empty. Cas isn’t in the bathroom either, or on the back porch. For one insane moment Dean thinks Cas has tried to leave without him, but Baby’s still parked right where he left her. Worry pounding inside him, Dean pulls on his jacket and heads outside into the driving rain.

There’s a pair of muddy footprints that lead down the drive, so Dean follows them until he comes to that first turn. Cas is halfway down the flooded stretch, knee-deep in mud and with a shovel in his hands. He’s dug a long trench at the edge of the road and it’s draining the water slowly.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean says to himself, then starts fighting his way along the ditch. “What the hell are you doing?” he hollers, and Cas looks up.

He’s sopping wet and absolutely filthy, his hair is sticking to his forehead, and his teeth are chattering. “There’s another shovel, if you’re gonna help,” he says as Dean draws up to him.

“No, I’m not gonna help, you moron. What are you trying to do?”

Cas nods at the trench. “It’ll help drain the water away, then we can get on the road to St Cloud.”

“Cas, St Cloud’s off our plate. I called Sam hours ago, he put somebody else on it. We’re good.”

Cas resumes his digging. “Well, we can still keep trying to get out of here.”

“Or, we could go back inside and out of this fucking downpour, Cas,” Dean retorts. “You’re soaked, and you’re freezing. You’re gonna get another damn cold.”

“Dean, if you’re not going to help, then would you please stop distracting me,” Cas says, venom in every word.

Dean’s restraint snaps. “Alright, you know what? Fine. You wanna stay out here like an idiot, go for it.” He turns on his heel and starts marching back through the mud. Once he gets back inside the cabin he peels his jacket off again, kicks out of his boots, and heads for the bottle of whiskey in the cupboard. He doesn’t bother grabbing a glass.

 

 

 

 

Cas doesn’t come back in for another two and a half hours. Dean spent the majority of that time at the table with his whiskey, but eventually he’d made himself a sandwich then dragged his sorry ass into the shower to try to clear his head. He’s coming back out of the bedroom dressed in sweats when Cas stumbles in the door looking like a drowned rat. Dean’s about to make a snide remark when he notices that Cas is shaking violently.

Cas looks at him, dark blue eyes standing out sharply against pale, wet skin. “I’m cold,” he mumbles.

The anger doesn’t leave Dean, but he lets the worry take over for a while. “ _Damnit_ , Cas. You’re a fucking moron,” he says, walking over and starting to strip him of his wet clothes. “C’mon, lose the boots. You’re getting in the shower right now.”

Cas leans one hand against the wall and pulls his feet from his ruined shoes, and Dean herds him into the bathroom. He lets Cas pull off his own jeans and shirt while he turns the shower dials on to warm. Once Cas is naked Dean helps him step into the tub.

“The water’s still too cold,” Cas shivers.

Dean nods. “Yeah, I know buddy, but you can’t put it on hot right away. Give it a few minutes, then we turn it up a little.”

Cas nods jerkily, wrapping his arms around himself. Dean turns away and starts to gather up Cas’ sodden clothes.

“Dean –” Cas starts quietly.

Dean closes his eyes and exhales. “Later, okay? I’m still pissed.” He turns back around after a moment, and Cas meets his eyes and nods.

Dean leaves the bathroom and crosses to the washer and dryer in the corner. He dumps Cas’ clothes inside and starts the machine, then goes to the kitchen to put a pot of soup on.

He leaves it simmering on the stove and heads back to the bathroom when he hears the water shut off. Cas is drying his hair, and Dean snags another towel from the closet and wraps it around him, rubbing his arms. After a moment Dean guides him into the bedroom and pulls out a clean set of sweats. “Put these on, then get under the covers.”

He leaves him to change, then returns a few minutes later with a bowl of soup. Cas is leaning back against the old wooden headboard, blankets drawn up around him. Dean sits facing him on the edge of the bed and hands over the soup.

Cas takes a few mouthfuls. “You didn’t have to do this,” he says quietly.

“Okay, see, what you’re _supposed_ to say when somebody makes you food is ‘thank you,’” Dean says.

“Thank you,” Cas responds sullenly.

Dean sighs heavily and drags a hand down his face. “The hell am I doing wrong here, Cas?” he asks tiredly. “Why is it you can’t just sit here for a day without losing it?”

“I didn’t _lose it_ ,” Cas says, eyes on his soup.

“Really?” Dean asks. “Because it seems to me you spent four hours shoveling mud in a freezing cold downpour instead of staying in here with me.” Cas looks up at him, but Dean doesn’t meet his eyes. “You wanna get out of here that bad? Guess I’m just not enough, huh?” he asks, voicing the niggling fear that’s been twisting in the back of his mind.

“Dean,” Cas says, and Dean looks up. Cas’ eyes are wide. “It’s not about you,” he says firmly.

“Then what, man? I get needing to work, ‘kay? You know I do. But we need a break sometimes.” Cas drops his eyes back down to his soup. “Cas, we have been going non-stop for more than two months. It’s not like you’re not tired – I know you are, and I’m not just talking about the sleeping thing. You’re burning out. And _I’m_ burning out.”

“This is our job,” Cas says.

“Yeah, it is,” Dean nods. “It’s our crap job that nobody pays us for. It’s bloody and messy a lot of the time, but we still do it because it’s important and it saves people’s lives.”

“And that’s what I’m trying to do, Dean,” Cas says. “I want to help people.”

“We _do_ , Cas! But when you do it at the expense of your own. . . health, or sanity or whatever, you stop helping people. And that’s how we get ourselves killed.”

“I can’t afford to take breaks, Dean,” Cas says, angry. “This. . . mission, this job; I’m glad to do it, I _want_ to do it. But it’s still atonement for me. It always will be. And I can’t believe you don’t understand that.”

Dean sighs. “We’ve all done shit we need to atone for, Cas. Doesn’t mean we don’t get to live along the way.”

Cas looks at him. “You’re a hypocrite.”

Dean blinks. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Cas says. “You’ve treated hunting like penance, you’ve thrown yourself into your work without a thought for yourself. You’ve done exactly this before.”

“Yeah, welcome to a John Winchester childhood, Cas! Do the job, screw your own happiness and your own dreams, ‘cause you’ve got a responsibility to an entire fucking world of nameless strangers. From the time I was six years old, Cas. And do you have any idea how long it’s taken me to figure out how fucked up and wrong that all was? How long it took me to understand I could have something for myself?”

Cas is staring at him, the bowl of soup forgotten in his hands. Dean closes his eyes and exhales deeply. “We’re allowed to live, Cas. The whole self-sacrificing, martyr thing; don’t learn that from me, man.”

After a moment, Cas shakes his head slightly. “I don’t know how, Dean. I don’t know how to turn it off.”

“Okay,” Dean nods. “Well, for starters, you remember that you’re not fighting the good fight solo.” He offers a small smile. “There’s me. There’s Sam, and Mom, and a whole damn network of other hunters. I told you, Sam put Donna on St Cloud the moment we had to back out.”

Cas looks away, then nods reluctantly.

“And you talk to me, man, instead of shutting me out and freezing your ass off in a storm all afternoon.”

Cas huffs a breath, still turned away. “Yeah.”

Dean reaches over to take the soup bowl from him and sets it on the night stand. Then he brings both hands up to cup Cas’ face, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“And you remember that you’re human now, and you deserve a life.”

Cas smiles at him wistfully. “I don’t know if I can do that part.”

“Then I’ll remind you,” Dean says fiercely. “Every day if that’s what it takes. You deserve a life, Cas, and you deserve to be happy.”

Cas just looks at him for a moment, and then it’s like something breaks behind his eyes. “I’m in love with you,” he says softly. “Did you know that?”

All the air leaves the room.

Dean did know, of course, on some level. But actually hearing the words out loud hits him like a freight train and he’s frozen, reeling in shock.

Cas is just sitting there, soft and quiet and like he hasn’t just cosmically shifted Dean’s whole fucking universe.

He can’t answer with words, doesn’t trust himself to try and speak yet, so he responds the only way he can. Cas’ mouth pulls him in like a riptide; he kisses him, and kisses him again, and over and over until he’s dizzy.

Dean breaks away to try and catch his breath, and Cas brings his hands up to Dean’s face, mirroring him.

He drags his thumb under Dean’s eye. “I’m sorry. About before,” he whispers.

Dean just shakes his head and leans back in, bringing their lips together again. Apologies can happen later. Right now he needs to feel Cas’ skin against his own.

Dean keeps kissing him, but his hands leave Cas’ face and start tugging at the zipper of his own hoodie. He drags it down his arms then reaches back up to pull at the hem of Cas’ t-shirt and sweater. They’re forced to separate as Dean pulls them both over Cas’ head in one go, but then he’s back in again, his mouth latching onto the skin of Cas’ neck and his hands running up and over his bare chest. Cas pushes the covers back for them and starts shuffling down in the bed, and Dean breaks away again to pull his henley off and yank down his sweatpants and boxers. Then he reaches over to tug off Cas’ pants as well, too desperate to be teasing about it.

The minute they’re both free of their clothes Dean is on top of him, grinding their hardening cocks together and fucking Cas’ mouth with his tongue. Cas’ hands are up in his hair, running through the strands and then gripping tight. Impatient, Dean pulls away from his mouth and starts kissing down Cas’ broad chest, not stopping until he’s between his legs and taking Cas into his mouth. Cas keeps his fingers twisted in Dean’s hair and lets out a deep moan that goes straight to Dean’s cock.

He works his tongue up and down a while, kneading the flesh of Cas’ thick thighs and licking at the drops of precome that bead from the tip. Cas starts to make these soft panting sounds after a minute or two, and so Dean pulls off. He knows what he wants tonight.

He moves all the way back up, and Cas draws him in for a heated and filthy kiss. His hand reaches down to jack Dean’s cock, and then a moment later Cas’ other arm comes around Dean’s back to roll them over. They thrust together frantically a moment, Cas’ mouth now sucking a bruise at the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder, then Cas pulls away and shuffles to get his knees under him. Two fingers come up to Dean’s mouth, but Dean brings his own hand up to grab them.

Cas looks at him, concerned. “I –” Dean starts, panting. “I bought lube,” he says. Cas’ eyes widen fractionally. “We can. . . if you want.” He swallows. “ _I_ want.”

He doesn’t think he can get out much more than that, emotion and adrenaline running way too high. But thankfully Cas nods, and bends down to kiss him again.

“Your bag?” Cas asks, shifting away from him.

Dean nods. “Inside pocket.”

Cas disappears off the side of the bed, and Dean closes his eyes and waits for him, nerves and anticipation jangling in his stomach. The mattress dips as Cas crawls back on, straddling one of Dean’s legs. He places one hand on Dean’s cheek and kisses him softly.

“I’ll go slow,” he says.

Dean nods and opens his eyes. Cas grabs a pillow from the head of the bed and positions it under his hips, then he draws one of Dean’s legs up, making him plant his foot on the mattress. He presses a light kiss to Dean’s knee, then squeezes some lube into his hand. The bottle drops beside them on the bed and then Cas leans down over Dean to kiss him as the first finger starts to tease his hole.

Dean exhales shakily against his lips, trying to relax as Cas starts to open him up. They’ve done this part before, but the knowledge of where it’s leading this time is threatening to make him lose it right here and now.

The lube makes things easier than spit did, and soon Cas has two fingers worked inside of him. He draws them in and out a few times, then starts to spread and scissor them, pressing against the inner walls.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean groans. Cas kisses him again and keeps moving his fingers, then his thumb comes up to rub at the thin stretch of skin behind Dean’s balls.

“Fuck!” Dean yells, pleasure spiking through him. His cock is throbbing, neglected, but he resists touching it. He wants to come with Cas inside him.

Cas seals their lips a moment later to swallow Dean’s moan as a third finger breaches him. Dean rocks his hips down, trying to adjust past the twinge of discomfort, and Cas keeps his pace slow and steady. He pumps his hand in and out, and swirls and twists his fingers gently. After a few torturous minutes, he crooks one finger up and sweeps it out until he finds the hard bud of nerves and suddenly Dean is _alight_.

“Cas, fuck,” he gasps. “Now, please.”

Cas dips his head to brush their lips together. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly.

Dean rolls back onto Cas’ hand, impatient. “Yeah, Cas, I’m good. Please,” he says again, not caring that he’s begging.

Cas nods and kisses him again, then gently withdraws his hand. Dean tries not to whimper at the loss, his hips grinding up against nothing as Cas grabs the lube again. Dean looks down to watch and notices that Cas’ hands are shaking.

Dean reaches out, closing his fingers gently around Cas’ wrist. “Hey. You okay?”

Cas finds his eyes. “Yes,” he whispers, an awed kind of look on his face. “This is just. . .”

Dean nods and smiles up at him. “Yeah, I know,” he says shakily, then draws Cas down to kiss him thoroughly.

Cas breaks away after a moment and picks up the bottle again, coating his cock. Then he wipes his hand off on the sheet and shifts himself up between Dean’s raised knees. He takes hold of his slippery cock in one hand, traces it over Dean’s hole once, then looks up to meet Dean’s eyes.

Dean nods, heart racing, and Cas leans forward and slowly starts pushing into him.

His breath is punched out of him in one gust. It’s pressure and fullness and nerve endings all on fire, like Cas’ fingers but just _more_ , more everything. Cas lets out a long moan and keeps moving in, sliding further and bringing them closer together. Dean’s feet leave the mattress to wrap around Cas’ waist, and then Cas bottoms out, his head bowed. Dean just breathes for a moment, adjusting slowly and overwhelmed with sensation.

After a few steadying breaths he brings his hands up to Cas’ trembling shoulders. “Hey,” he whispers. “Look at me.”

Cas pulls his head up, and he looks absolutely _wrecked_. His mouth is slick and shiny and his eyes are slightly dazed, pupils blown wide. “Dean –” he chokes out.

Dean doesn’t let him finish, just pulls him down to press their mouths together. The movement draws Cas even deeper into him, and Dean gasps.

They kiss for a few long moments, but having Cas unmoving inside him is driving Dean nine kinds of crazy, so he gives his hips a little roll to try to relieve some pressure. That forces a groan out of Cas, but it also seems to give him the message, and he starts to slowly draw back out.

Dean drops his head back on the pillow. “Oh, fuck,” he sighs, then Cas pushes back in. Dean tries to force even breaths as Cas starts to build up a slow and steady rhythm, and he rolls his own hips to match.

After a moment Cas brings his face up to hover over Dean’s. His hips keep up their steady, gentle roll as he stares, looking awestruck. Then a soft smile crosses his face and he starts to brush Dean’s lips with light, teasing kisses. Dean tips his head up to meet him, tracing his tongue lightly along Cas’ lips, and his hands start to rove around Cas’ chest and ribs.

Needing more, Dean digs his heels into Cas’ lower back. Cas starts to push in a little harder, but the angle doesn’t quite work, so he pulls himself up and away, sitting back on his heels and gripping onto Dean’s thighs. He’s got greater freedom of movement like this, so he starts thrusting with his hips faster, pulling Dean back onto his cock. From this position there’s not much Dean can do but lie back and take it, so he grips the sheets and watches, enraptured, as Cas drives into him.

Cas stares back down at him, his eyes blazing and breath panting out. The need in his cock finally too much, Dean brings a hand down and starts jacking himself, groaning with relief. He reaches out for Cas too, needing some contact, and he finds his thigh, feeling the strong muscles flex as Cas moves. One particularly hard thrust has him gasping out Cas’ name, head falling back onto the pillow.

Then Cas positively _growls_ , and he drives forward and stays there, grinding their hips together enough that Dean is seeing stars. In the same moment Cas is leaning down over him, and his arms come around under Dean’s back, hands gripping his shoulders from behind. Before Dean knows what’s happening, Cas is _lifting_ him and pulling him all the way up so he’s seated, upright, in Cas’ lap, cock still buried deep.

“Whoa, holy –” Dean gasps, arms flailing out to wrap around Cas’ shoulders as he tries to adjust to the change of angle. Cas’ cock is so deep inside him now, gravity spearing Dean open. After a breathless moment of shifting he looks up into Cas’ eyes, inches from his own. “Impressive.”

“You were too far away,” Cas growls, then surges forward to kiss him hungrily.

Dean smiles against his lips, then starts to roll his hips down. Cas groans and buries his face in Dean’s neck, the hands on his back gripping tightly. They’re pressed so close together this way; Dean’s cock is now trapped between their stomachs, rubbing with every rock of their bodies.

Between the friction on his cock and the deep, solid pressure of Cas buried inside him, Dean feels his control start to slip. Desperation kicking in, he rolls his hips faster, riding Cas hard and pulling his head up to kiss him deeply. Cas tightens his hold on Dean’s back, then brings one hand to fumble in between their bodies. He starts pumping Dean, timing it with the thrusts of his own hips and Dean breaks his lips away to gasp out a ragged breath.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , Cas,” he cries, tension coiling tight and his muscles clenching. Then everything whites out; he dimly hears himself yelling Cas’ name again and he feels come spilling up onto his stomach. He’s still cresting when he feels Cas wrap both arms tight around him, keeping him still as he thrusts up hard, burying himself over and over in Dean’s body. Dean grips him back, holding on for dear life until Cas finally pushes up once, twice, and then stills with a final groan.

It takes Dean a long time to come down. He shudders and pulses, every nerve ending in his body feeling frayed and oversensitive. He shivers when Cas’ softening cock slips out of him, but they stay pressed close, arms wrapped tight around one another.

Eventually the cool air of the cabin starts to chill the drying sweat on their skin, so they carefully disentangle and sink back down onto the mattress. Dean pulls the quilts back up over them and they face each other, limbs knotting together and heads resting on a single pillow.

Cas brings a hand up, and he traces his fingers lightly across Dean’s face.

Dean closes his eyes. “What you said, before,” he starts.

Cas’ fingers pause their movements.

Dean takes a breath and opens his eyes. “Me too. I –” he swallows. “Me too.”

Cas sucks in a breath. He doesn’t reply, just leans in close and kisses him.

The rain pounds hard on the roof.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, friends.  
> I'm always a slut for kudos.  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG  
> (Y'all should be listening to these songs, btw. They're a) excellent and b) thematically relevant. )


	12. Track 12: Achilles Last Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grass rustles softly underfoot as they creep up closer to the tiny church. The moon is just a crescent, but it’s bright enough that Dean can see every rock and twig in his path. Cas moves up ahead, quietly climbing the stone steps and putting his back to the rotting wooden doors. Dean follows after, taking his place beside him and reaching for the iron handle. 
> 
> He raises his eyebrows in question and Cas nods, silently slipping his angel blade from the back of his jeans. 
> 
> Dean tightens his grip on the demon knife. “Here is the church, here is the steeple. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve used the canon bits I wanted from the last few episodes of S12 here, and left out what I didn’t. Try not to apply too much canon-y logic, vis-à-vis who’s alive and who’s not.

Sending off a glancing kiss, to those who claim they know  
Below the streets that steam and hiss, The devil's in his hole  
  
Oh to sail away, To sandy lands and other days  
Oh to touch the dream, Hides inside and never seen.  
  
Into the sun the south the north, at last the birds have flown  
The shackles of commitment fell, In pieces on the ground  
  
Oh to ride the wind, To tread the air above the din  
Oh to laugh aloud, Dancing as we fought the crowd

 

 

 

 

The grass rustles softly underfoot as they creep up closer to the tiny church. The moon is just a crescent, but it’s bright enough that Dean can see every rock and twig in his path. Cas moves up ahead, quietly climbing the stone steps and putting his back to the rotting wooden doors. Dean follows after, taking his place beside him and reaching for the iron handle.

He raises his eyebrows in question and Cas nods, silently slipping his angel blade from the back of his jeans.

Dean tightens his grip on the demon knife. “Here is the church, here is the steeple. . .”

He flings the doors wide and they’re in, surprising the four demons clustered up near the altar. They stand and charge, pulling out blades of their own.

Dean and Cas split up down opposite aisles, dividing the demons. Dean ducks under the first swing of a knife and comes around behind, throwing up an elbow to the back of one’s head. He feints right around the other, then spins and plants his blade in its back. The wound sparks, and the demon drops.

The first demon comes in for another high jab with the blade, but Dean parries it. Then the demon gets a lucky shot in, sucker-punching Dean in the nose. He staggers back into a collapsed wooden pew and the demon follows forward, but Dean gets his feet back under him and brings the knife up, jamming it through the demon’s chin and into his skull.

He yanks the knife out and pushes the demon back, then looks over to Cas. He’s just dispatched one of his, but the fourth is making a run across the room, headed straight for Dean. Cas narrows his eyes and flips his blade in his hand, then lobs it through the air. It embeds in the demon’s back and he tumbles face-first to the ground.

“Told ya it’d be easy,” Dean says, only slightly out of breath.

Cas gives him a look, then walks over to pull his blade free.

They both look up sharply when they hear sirens approaching from the road. “Damn, I knew that sheriff was too smart for his own good,” Dean says, and they both make for the door.

They manage to pull away from the derelict church mere moments before the flashing blue lights appear in their rear-view mirror. Cas pulls out his phone as soon as they’re certain they haven’t been noticed.

“Sam? We took care of the demons in Missoula.” He listens for a moment, then turns to Dean. “Make a right, head for the interstate.”

Dean frowns. “More? Already?”

Cas shakes his head, silent again as Sam talks. “No. How soon can we get back to Lebanon?”

Dean looks at the clock on the dash. “If we push it, fifteen hours?”

“Late afternoon, Sam,” Cas repeats. “Alright, we’re on our way.” He hangs up.

“Sam got some answers for us?”

“Let’s hope so,” Cas says.

Dean sighs. “Okay, we’re gonna be driving until tomorrow, you should try to sleep if you can. We’ll switch off when we hit Wyoming.”

Cas nods, then rolls up the sleeves of his flannel. Dean glances down and notices a long cut on his forearm.

“You shoulda said; that okay?”

Cas brings his arm up, examining the cut. “It’s fine, just a scratch.”

Unthinking, Dean reaches out and grasps Cas’ arm, then pulls it to his lips and presses a light kiss to his skin. “There, I kissed it better.”

There’s a silent moment, then Dean turns to find Cas looking at him with his eyebrows raised, amused.

“. . . Never tell anyone I did that.”

 

 

 

 

“Holy crap.”

Dean has _never_ seen the bunker this full. From their vantage point on the landing, he can see his Mom and her partner Ian leaning against the war room table. Sitting in chairs beside them are Walt and a hunter Dean recognizes but can’t put a name to, and then up the steps into the library he can see Eileen talking with two young men he doesn’t know.

“Dean,” Mary says warmly as they start down the staircase. “Castiel. How are you boys?”

“Hey, Mom, we’re good,” Dean says, coming in to hug her. She releases him after a moment and he steps out of the way so she can pull Cas into a hug as well.

“Good,” she smiles. “You remember Ian?”

Ian steps up, extending a hand. He’s only about ten years older than Dean, with greying hair down to his shoulders. Dean takes his proffered hand and smiles, but squeezes his fingers maybe a little harder than is strictly necessary.

To his credit, Ian doesn’t flinch. “Dean, Castiel, good to see you again. You certainly look better than the last time,” he says to Dean, smiling.

Dean pulls back and Cas shakes his hand too. “Well you know, even a Hellhound mauling can’t keep me down for long.” Cas looks at him, incredulous. “This time.”

Cas shakes his head.

Mary pats Dean’s arm and takes a step toward the hallway. “There’s food and beer in the kitchen, once you boys get settled.” Dean nods and she and Ian head down the hall.

Once they go, Dean turns his eyes to the war room table. “Walt,” he says.

Walt nods once. “Dean.” He turns his eyes to Cas, curious.

“Castiel,” Cas says, stepping forward and holding out his hand to shake.

Walt raises his eyebrows and doesn’t take it. “Heard about you. You’re the angel.”

Cas withdraws his hand. “I was. I’m human now.”

Walt nods again, squinting at him suspiciously, and Dean feels a flicker of unease. Then Walt rotates in his chair to face the woman beside him.

“Rina,” she says, nodding to Dean. “We met at Jody Mills’ house a while back. Nice to meet you, Castiel,” she says to Cas. Her tone isn’t unfriendly, but there’s no warmth in it either.

Fortunately, they’re saved from more uncomfortable small talk by Dean catching Eileen’s eye. He waves, and she smiles and walks over to them.

“Hey, Dean. You two made good time,” she says. “Castiel. It’s great to finally meet you; I’ve heard so much about you.”

Cas smiles at her, then he starts moving his hands rapidly. Eileen looks surprised, but then a broad grin crosses her face and she starts signing back.

“Seriously?” Dean asks. “Since when do you know sign language?”

“I’m very old, Dean,” Cas says. He throws up a few more gestures, and Eileen laughs.

“Well, great,” Dean says grumpily. He raises his own hand and signs out _S-A-M_. He’d learned the alphabet, at least.

Eileen points to the door leading off the library. “He was putting Sadie in our room, last I saw. She doesn’t like all the people.”

Dean signs a quick _thank you_ with one hand, then reaches for Cas’ bag. “Alright. You kids have fun, now,” he says, and heads off toward the hallway.

He finds Sam in his room, flat on his stomach and trying to coax the dog out from under his bed. “Come on girl, you don’t need to hide from me.”

“Said Sam Winchester to every girl he knew in high school,” Dean says.

Sam startles and jumps, knocking his head on the underside of the bedframe. “Ow! Jeez, Dean.”

“Hey Sammy,” Dean says cheerfully. “Hit your head there?”

Sam shuffles back and gets to his feet. “Yeah, thanks. And hey. When’d you get in?”

“Just now. Quite the party you got out there.”

“Yeah, I got something big, figured an in-person brief was the way to go.”

Dean looks at him grimly. “Demon stuff, huh?”

Sam sighs. “Yeah. I’ll fill y’all in with what I’ve put together. We should have everybody, now you two are here.”

“No Jody? Claire?”

Sam shakes his head. “Jody’s got some conference she can’t get out of, and Claire’s taking a knee, she broke her ankle last week – she’s fine,” Sam says quickly, when Dean looks concerned. “Set of stairs collapsed underneath her when she was working this cursed object thing.”

“Poor kid.” Sadie finally pokes her head out from the bed, then crawls out to come butt her nose against Dean’s hand. He pats her head begrudgingly. “Well, just as well right now. Place is pretty packed, at least compared to normal.”

“Yeah, about that,” Sam says, looking uncomfortable. “With everyone staying here, at least for tonight, we were running low on rooms with useable furniture, so I kinda packed Cas’ stuff up from his room. He didn’t have much in there, but I put it all in a box and left it in your room. Figured you’d be sharing, right? Is that okay?”

Dean feels a bit of heat in his face, but he meets his brother’s eyes. “Yeah, Sammy.”

Sam’s shoulders sag with relief. “Good. I mean, I figured, but I know you haven’t told Mom yet, so. . .”

Dean heaves a sigh. “Yeah. Not sure how that’s gonna go.”

“She’ll be fine, man.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Dean says. Then he gives himself a little shake. “Alright, c’mon Bosley. Time to give us our mission, should we choose to accept it.”

“You’re mashing up your tv shows, man.”

“Whatever.”

 

 

 

 

There’s ten of them, all gathered at the war room table, plates of food and the odd beer bottle scattered around. Sam stands in the middle on one side, and all eyes are on him.

“Okay, so, I’m sure you guys have all noticed the uptick in demon activity over the last month.”

“Understatement,” Ian says. “It’s been quiet for almost a year, then we work three in three weeks.”

Sam nods. “Right. So, before Crowley died, he sealed up Hell. Since that happened, reports have been slim, save the odd crossroads demon or possession case. Kind of like how things used to be before the apocalypse.”

“Good times,” Dean says.

“We tried a couple times to find out where they’re all coming from,” Eileen says. “They either smoke out too fast, or they won’t talk.”

“Yeah, until now,” Sam says. He nods to Remy and Hackett, the hunters Eileen had been speaking to earlier.

Remy leans forward to address the group. His voice is deep and accented with something that Dean thinks might be French. “Me and Hackett found a cabal of them over in North Carolina a few days ago. We managed to get one of them stuck with that little devil’s trap bullet trick of yours,” he says to Sam. “We got it out of him that there was a faction that fought their way through the barrier and made it topside. Just over a month ago now.”

“A faction?” Mary asks. “How many?”

“Couple dozen,” Hackett says, picking up his beer bottle from the table. “Demon said there were more waiting to come through, but whatever power or spell they used wasn’t enough. That first wave came out and then the door shut behind them.”

“Well that’s good,” Rina says. “If there’s only that many, we must’ve taken out most of them by now, between all of us.”

“Yeah, until more of them come through,” Dean says.

“Why now?” Ian asks. “Has it just taken them the better part of a year to bust through Crowley’s lock?”

Remy shakes his head. “The one we interrogated said they’d been ‘waiting until the playing field was clear.’ That’s all he said about that, though. We don’t know what it means.”

Dean glances at Cas, and he returns the look grimly.

“It’s the angels, isn’t it?” Walt says, turning to stare directly at Cas. “Last little while, any reports of halos running around have dropped off too.”

“Yes,” Cas says, and everyone turns to face him. Cas inclines his head to Dean. “We found out a few months ago that Heaven has reinstituted their non-interference policy. They’ve been staying clear of Earth. Word must somehow have traveled to Hell, and the demons think they’ll have an easier time up here without them.”

“Why?” Walt asks, crossing his arms. “Why’re the angels backing off now?”

Cas narrows his eyes. “They have their reasons. Primarily, it’s an attempt to regain control, unify them all again. But I think many of them realize they’ve caused too much damage down here.”

“Oh really. Have they?” Walt scoffs.

Dean bristles. “You got a problem, Walt?”

Everyone is hushed and tense, eyes going back and forth down the table, but Walt’s eyes don’t leave Cas. “I had a buddy a couple years ago. Good guy; had a wife, couple kids. Got caught in the middle of one of your little angel skirmishes and ended up roasted from the inside out.”

There is a very uncomfortable silence, then Cas nods. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Oh you are? Angel’s sorry, you guys,” Walt says scathingly to the room at large.

“Watch it,” Dean growls, and beneath the table Cas briefly presses a hand to his knee.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Sam says. “Walt, knock it off. This is beside the point anyway.”

Walt glares at Cas another moment, but then turns his attention back to Sam.

“Rina was right; if what Remy and Hackett found out was true, there aren’t a lot of them left. But day before yesterday, I found something.” He pulls out a large map of the country and lays it flat on the table. Eileen tosses him a marker and Sam bends over the table. “Demon omens, all flaring up at once. Medford, Oregon; Minot, North Dakota; then New York City, New Orleans, and Tucson.”

Mary frowns. “They’re hitting all over.”

Cas thinks for a moment. “Wait, that’s –”

Sam cuts him off with a grim nod. “Yeah.” He marks each city on the map, then draws five lines to connect them all.

“Pentagram,” Remy says. “Massive.”

Dean looks at Sam. “Like Wyoming. What d’you figure, another devil’s gate?”

“I don’t know, but it’s something,” Sam caps the marker. “Maybe points for a spell? But I think we have to assume they’re trying to open the gates back up from this side.”

“Damn,” Hackett says. “So what do we do?”

“We split up and go after them all at once,” Sam says. “Five points, five teams. Like we said, there’s only a handful of them left that made it through with the first wave; hopefully only a couple demons at each site.”

“And if there’s not?” Ian asks. “Wouldn’t it be safer to go in bigger groups, take them out one by one?”

Cas shakes his head. “We do that, we risk giving them a chance to warn each other, switch locations.”

“Exactly,” Sam says. “We hit ‘em in one. I’m quarterbacking from here.”

“I’ve got Minot,” Eileen says. “I’m meeting up with Donna tomorrow.”

Remy throws up a hand. “We’ve got New Orleans. My old stompin’ grounds.”

Sam nods. “Works for me. Mom, Ian: Tucson. Walt and Rina get Medford.”

“Which leaves us New York,” Dean says, nudging Cas. “We wrap it up quick enough, we could see the sights, take in a show.”

Cas quirks up the corner of his mouth. “Alright.”

“Okay, that’s it then,” Sam says. “We take off tomorrow; everybody clear on the plan?”

 

 

 

 

They all stay sitting around the table for a while, talking and catching up, then after a few hours people start to slowly drift off to bed. Dean and Cas are both pretty wiped after driving all day and finally beg off after a long conversation with Remy and Hackett, who turn out to be old friends of Eileen’s, raised in part by the same hunter who took her in.

They bid their goodnights and start down the hall to Dean’s room, but halfway there they come upon Walt and Rina standing at an open door. They’d been speaking quietly, but stop talking immediately upon seeing them.

Rina runs her eyes over the two of them, then looks back at Walt. “See you in the morning,” she says, then steps into the room behind her and closes the door.

Walt squints at Dean and Cas. “Don’t mind her,” he says acidly. “We’re just not really used to having to work with the enemy.”

Dean takes a step forward, hands forming into fists, but Cas puts his arm up across Dean’s chest to stop him and steps forward himself. His eyes rove Walt’s face for a moment before he turns back to Dean.

“He killed you once, didn’t he?”

Dean barely has time to nod before Cas is pulling a fist back and punching Walt square in the face. He drops like a sack of potatoes.

Dean’s mouth falls open as Cas shakes out his fist. Walt’s staggering back to his feet, nose a little bloody, when Sam comes up from behind Dean to hold Walt back.

“Alright, cool it, _now_ ,” Sam says, giving him a shove. “Think it’s time you went to bed, Walt.”

Outnumbered, Walt glares at them all a moment before storming off down the hall.

“Making friends, Cas?” Sam asks.

Cas shrugs, and Dean gapes at him.

“That was _awesome_.” Dean turns to look both ways down the hall. “Sam, avert your eyes,” he says, then grabs the front of Cas’ shirt and plants a kiss on his mouth. After a moment he pulls away and grins. “You should punch people more often.”

“I punch people all the time, Dean. It’s our job.”

“Alright, well, I think that’s my cue to leave,” Sam says, but he’s smiling too. “Night, guys.”

“Goodnight, Sam,” Cas says, and Sam heads down to his room.

“C’mon,” Dean says lowly, and starts dragging Cas along by his shirt.

 

 

 

 

Thankfully, Walt and Rina are gone by the time Dean and Cas haul themselves out of bed the next morning, saving them all from any further incidents. After a quick breakfast with Sam and a pyjama-clad Eileen, they’re on the road to New York. Cas is riding shotgun, reading through the file that Sam assembled for them.

“Sam’s pinpointed the location of the demon omens to a few blocks of Lower Manhattan.”

“Any way we can narrow that down?” Dean asks. “A few blocks in New York can mean dozens of buildings and thousands of people.”

“I’ll keep looking; I’m sure we’ll have it figured out by the time we get there tomorrow.” Cas has his arm rested along the back of the bench, and his fingers start to absent-mindedly brush through Dean’s hair as he reads.

Dean smiles. “You’re in a good mood.”

Cas hums slightly. “I slept well.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s the mattress,” Dean says. “Memory foam, man, best fifteen hundred bucks of somebody else’s money I ever spent.”

They stop for the night in Indiana, then start up again early the next morning. They’re coming up on the New Jersey border that afternoon when Dean frowns at an article on the laptop.

“Okay, might have something. Reports of some ‘erratic behaviour’ from a Miranda Washington; she’s a senior exec at this fancy-pants bank. Main offices are in the middle of our demon zone.”

“What kind of erratic behaviour?” Cas asks.

“Firing a bunch of people without reason, cancelling major deals. And apparently she’s facing charges for throwing her secretary through a glass wall.”

“That sounds promising.”

“Yeah.” Dean types a few more minutes. “Got a home address here; make sure you head for Brooklyn when we get closer.”

Miranda Washington’s house is large and well-manicured, set back a few hundred feet from the street. There’s no answer at the door when they knock, so Dean pulls out his lock pick while Cas keeps watch.

The scent of rotting meat hits them like a wall the second they step inside. “Phew, god. That’s never a good sign,” Dean says, wrinkling his nose and moving into the hall.

They split up, moving through the house carefully with their weapons drawn. Dean finds nothing on his search of the upstairs, so he comes back down to find Cas standing in the living room. “Nobody home.”

Cas shakes his head. “Not anymore.” He gestures in front of him and Dean comes around the corner of the couch to see three bodies lying on the floor, throats all slit.

“Damn,” Dean says. “Husband, kids. We’ve definitely got our demon.”

Cas nods, hand coming up to block his nose. “They’ve been here at least a few weeks.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Whole house is covered in dust, and the master bedroom hasn’t been touched. I doubt Miranda’s been coming back here.”

“I’m not surprised,” Cas says. “If the omens are coming from her office, that’s probably where she’s been staying.”

“Alright, it’s getting late,” Dean says, pulling on Cas’ sleeve. “Let’s grab a motel. We’ll head over to the office in the morning, soon as Sam gives us all the go.”

 

 

 

 

The bank occupies ten floors of a towering skyscraper, and Dean and Cas step out of the elevator the next morning amid modern furniture, polished chrome fixtures, and glass-walled rooms.

“I told you we should’ve worn the suits,” Cas says lowly, and Dean looks down self-consciously at their usual jeans and plaid.

“Yeah okay, fine. Next time,” Dean whispers back, then pulls a badge from his pocket and strides up to the reception desk.

The girl at the desk looks up at them apprehensively, and Dean flashes a smile. “Hi there; Detective Bonham, NYPD. This is Detective Jones. We need a word with Miranda Washington.”

“Um, Mrs. Washington. . . isn’t available right now. Can – can I have her call you?” the receptionist says nervously.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Well, it’s a police matter, miss. I think she should make herself available.”

The receptionist darts her eyes around at the people milling about the office, then starts straightening things on her desk with slightly shaking hands. “She, um, she asked not to be disturbed.”

Cas steps forward, squinting down at her. “We’re here about an incident that happened a week ago. There was an assistant here who was thrown through a wall. Was that you, miss. . .?”

“Christie,” she says, looking up at them with wide eyes. “Christie Burke. And no, that wasn’t me, I’m just – just filling in. Annie’s still. . . off sick.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Dean says. “Listen, Christie. We want to help; we’d like to speak to your boss and get this all sorted out. Where is she?”

Christie visibly gulps, her hands still shaking. “Next floor up,” she whispers. “But I don’t know why, there’s just construction happening. We’re expanding our offices, but she sent all the workers home a couple weeks ago and she’s been spending all her time up there. She won’t let anyone else go up.”

Dean nods. “Okay, thank you, Christie.”

She still looks terrified. “Don’t tell her I told you, please. I’m just trying to do my job.”

Cas smiles at her. “Of course. Thank you.”

They head back into the elevator and Dean hits the button for Floor 62. “Okay, so, boss from hell takin’ on a whole new meaning.” He pulls out the demon knife and pats his pocket for the flask of holy water. “You good?”

Cas grips his angel blade and pulls out his phone. “The exorcism recording; ready as soon as I hit play.”

Dean steps forward and kisses him swiftly. “Alright, lets do this,” he says, and the doors slide open.

The floor looks deserted. Dean and Cas slip out of the elevator and start making their way forward, ducking around flaps of plastic sheeting. There’s the odd desk and office chair, but mostly the room is littered with construction equipment, piles of wood, and paint buckets. Down at one end of the space there are more plastic drop cloths hung from the ceiling, and behind them Dean can see something flickering like candlelight.

Dean gets Cas’ attention and nods toward the light, and together they start moving forward, footsteps muffled by canvas cloths on the ground. They separate when they draw close, then after a silent countdown whirl around the plastic sheets.

There’s no one there, but there are candles laid at points around a circle drawn in what looks like blood. Words in Latin are written out in dark ink on the floor, filling every inch of the circle, and there’s a spell bowl sitting in the middle. Slowly, Dean lowers the knife.

“No Miranda, but I’m guessing this is where the mojo’s coming from.”

Cas frowns, looking at the circle. “I suppose, but I don’t recognize this spell. I wonder what they’re doing.”

Dean feels a sense of disquiet, but he shakes it off. “Well, I say we figure that out later. Right now let’s take care of this, then we wait for our demon to show.”

They start destroying the spellwork, kicking at the blood circle to break the line. Dean grabs the bowl and dumps the contents into a heavy construction dumpster in the corner, then Cas pours a bucket of paint over the Latin and the candles all go out at once.

Cas steps back, still frowning down at the same spot on the floor. “This isn’t right,” he says, and looks back up at Dean.

Dean meets his eyes, anxiety still resting in his stomach. “Too easy, huh?”

Then he feels a sharp pain to the back of his head and everything goes black.

 

 

 

 

When Dean wakes, his head is throbbing and there’s an all-too-familiar ache in his arms that comes from having one’s hands tied behind their back. He’s aware of Cas beside him, their arms pressed close together, and when Dean leans back he can feel the bare wooden column they’re tied to. Wincing, he turns to look at Cas. He’s conscious and his eyes are alert, but there’s a trickle of blood running down behind his ear.

“Yoo hoo,” comes a voice from in front of him, and Dean looks forward to find the demon, Miranda, sitting on one of the desks and waggling long, painted fingernails at him. The demon knife is in her other hand. “Dean, Castiel. I was hoping I’d get you.”

It’s then that Dean becomes aware of movement around him. He looks up as Christie the receptionist, plus half a dozen others he remembers seeing downstairs walk forward into view. Their eyes all flash black.

“Ah,” Dean says. “Not working alone, then.”

“Ooh, not at all, sugar,” Miranda says, as Dean surreptitiously tries to twist his hands about in their restraints. He’s lost the flask and his phone, but he can still feel the switchblade he keeps in his sleeve. He just has to reach it.

Miranda kicks her legs coquettishly, bright red heels flashing. “Here I was thinking I made things too obvious, but you still just ran right in, didn’t you? ‘Erratic behaviour,’ as they say. Kill a few family members, put a girl through a plate glass window. Got your attention.”

“And that spell on the floor,” Cas says. “It was fake, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, are we doing the ‘villain reveals their secret plan’ talk?” she asks, smiling. “Delighted to.”

“Oh, there’s a surprise,” Dean says, still trying to maneuver the little blade from his sleeve. “So, more than a couple dozen demons made it through, huh?”

Miranda grins, her eyes glittering. “Yeah, just a _few_ more. But still not everybody. Yet. We’re working on it.”

“Yeah, with your five points, big pentagram over the whole country. Go big or go home, right?”

Miranda sighs. “Oh Dean, you’re too used to Crowley. He always was a drama queen.”

Dean exchanges a look with Cas, confused.

Miranda rolls her eyes. “The circle of blood on the floor, all filled with Latin, and the great big pentagram, stretching out across the whole country. Flashy, right? Occult-y?” She smirks at them. “Come on, boys. Little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Then what?” Cas asks. Dean feels movement at his lower back as Cas’ fingers start to slip into his sleeve. “If you’re not trying to open up the gates from this side then what are you doing here?”

“Oh, we’ll open up the gates,” Miranda says. “In time. But, we have to make sure the playing field’s clear.”

Cas frowns. “You mean the angels. They’re gone, you know that.”

“Mmm, yes. The angels, they were an obstacle.” Miranda slips off the front of the desk. “But then, we got word that all over the country, _hunters_ were organizing.”

The pieces start to fall into place and Dean feels his stomach drop.

“We couldn’t have that, now could we? Little Sammy Winchester at the helm, dispatching hunters the second any demon moves a finger.”

Dean feels cool metal on his forearm as Cas finally gets his fingers on the switchblade. Dean shifts closer to fully block Miranda’s view as Cas starts to carefully saw through the rope around Dean’s wrists. “So what that demon told the hunters in North Carolina. . .”

“Mostly true, if you think about it,” Miranda says. “We need the playing field clear. Which it will be, in short order. We figured Sammy would send out his best and brightest for this.”

“So this, the five points, that was just to spread us out,” Cas says. Dean feels his bindings start to loosen.

“Divide and conquer,” Miranda says. “Everybody at least a day’s drive from everybody else. Because for whatever reason, none of you morons seem to have heard of airplanes.”

The rope falls away from Dean’s hands, but he keeps still and Cas passes him the knife. “Well, this is a good plan. Clever stuff.” He starts sawing through Cas’ restraints. “Just out of curiosity, why is it you bothered to keep us alive? I mean, we’ve had a nice chat and all, but do you really just like the sound of your own voice that much?”

Miranda steps forward and slaps him hard across the face. “Careful, Dean,” she says softly. She brings the demon knife up to his face and traces it, almost lovingly, down his cheek. “No, we need to have a little talk, first. Because we’re way out here in New York, all your other little hunter friends are walking into their own little traps, but somewhere, your general is sitting behind a desk, all alone and unprotected.”

A deep, instinctual fear surges through Dean then, and for a moment his hands pause their movement with the knife.

Miranda leans in close. “Where’s Sam, Dean?”

Relief hits him so hard he almost laughs out loud, and his hands start moving again. They don’t know where the bunker is. For all his faults and betrayals, Crowley never told.

Dean meets Miranda’s eyes and scoffs. “You really think I’m going to tell you? You think I’m going to give up my own brother?”

Miranda tilts her head. “No, you probably won’t.” Then faster than Dean can blink she shifts over, planting herself down in front of Cas and pressing the knife point under his chin. “But _he_ might.”

Cas curls his lips into a smile. “He’s my brother too.”

Warmth spreads out in Dean’s chest and the teasing smirk drops from Miranda’s face.

Then the rope is finally cut free and they spring into action.

Cas butts his head forward, smacking Miranda in the face, and Dean reaches out and wrests the knife from her hand. The other demons move to close in on them, but Dean and Cas are on their feet in an instant. Dean plunges the knife into the stomach of one of the demons, then pushes him backwards to knock into two of the others. Christie has Cas’ angel blade, and she sweeps out with it in wide arcs. Cas jumps out of the way and Dean reaches for his arm, dragging him back towards the elevator.

Miranda gets to her feet and yells after them as they tear across the floor. “You’re not getting out of here, boys!”

Just as they make it to the elevator it dings, and the doors slide open to reveal at least eight demons, wearing the bodies of more office workers.

“Stairs,” Cas says sharply, veering left. They burst through the emergency door and start down, the demons right behind them. They make it three floors when a door below them opens, and more demons start climbing up.

With nowhere else to go, Dean opens the nearest door and they run out into the middle of an office. Confused eyes glance up at them from all around the room.

“Sorry, folks,” Dean says, then he hears the pounding footsteps of the demons on the stairs behind them. He yanks on Cas’ arm again and they turn and run the opposite direction, ducking into a maze of cubicles.

They keep low and weave through the desks, ignoring the confused looks of the workers. The demons are scanning the room, shoving aside the humans scattered around the floor and slowly closing in. Dean and Cas eventually make it to the other side of the room, and Dean is looking around frantically for a way out when Cas reaches an arm up the wall and pulls the fire alarm.

The alarm bell starts blaring, and there’s movement all around the office as the human workers stand and head for the stairs. In the confusion Dean and Cas manage to slip over into another staircase, hiding in the crowds of people making for the ground floor.

Fear for the others is pulsing through Dean with every step down the busy staircase. They need to get out of here and start driving, get to Sam and Mom and stop everyone else from walking into the same stupid, obvious trap, if they haven’t already.

Dean’s trying to formulate their next move when Cas grabs his arm and nods down the stairs. A group of demons are fighting their way up through the descending workers, eyes scanning above them.

“Go go go, up,” Dean says, but the demons spot them and start moving faster.

Climbing against the flow of traffic is almost impossible, so they only manage to get two levels up before they abandon the stairs and topple out onto another floor. Not stopping to catch their breath, they run through the rooms a while, then find a long hallway lined with offices. Cas pulls a door open and they fall inside and collapse against a wall, panting heavily.

“Think we lost ‘em?” Dean asks.

“Maybe. For now,” Cas says.

Dean pushes a hand through his hair. “Nice move, with the fire alarm.”

“I figured it would get the civilians out of the way. Now we know anyone still walking around is a demon.”

Dean looks around the room and spots a phone sitting on the desk. He stands and walks over to try, but the line is dead. “Demons probably cut the lines. You don’t still have your phone, do you?”

Cas shakes his head. “No, they took it.”

“Mom, Eileen, everybody. We gotta get to a working phone, warn the others.”

“We will,” Cas says.

“Should’ve known that demon Remy and Hackett found was lying. Can’t believe we fell for this crap.”

“It was a clever plan,” Cas says. “But we’re still alive. Mary, Ian, Eileen; they’re good hunters, they’ll stay alive too.”

Dean shakes his head, but comes back down to lean against the wall next to Cas. Just then the fire alarm stops blaring. “That’s probably not good.”

The PA system crackles to life, and Dean and Cas both tilt their heads up to listen.

“Yoo hoo, boys,” Miranda’s voice sing-songs out of the speaker in the hallway. “I hear you’re hiding from my demons. That’s okay. I’ve put the building into a lockdown, so even if you make it to the ground floor, you’re not getting out. And in case you haven’t already tried, I’ve cut off all the phone lines too.”

They exchange a grim look.

“I’ve got units of demons searching every room of every floor. It might take a bit of time, but they will find you. And when they do, they’ll kill you – very slowly. Or, you can come out now, surrender yourselves, and I’ll make sure to be quick about it. Your choice.”

The microphone switches off, and Dean and Cas sit in silence for a moment.

“Okay,” Dean says. “So we’re trapped in a ninety-storey office building, probably a ton of civilians still sealed inside on the ground floor, we’ve got demons on our ass, and just one demon-killing knife between us.”

Cas nods. “Yeah. No problem.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Cas smiles, then winks. “ _Die Hard_.”

“Die – _what_?”

“ _Die Hard_. The first one.”

Dean stares at him. “I so want to jump you right now.”

“Later,” Cas says, standing and extending a hand down to pull Dean up.

They step back up to the office door, and Cas presses his ear against the wood to listen.

“Are we clear?”

Cas nods. “I don’t think they followed us onto this floor.”

“We still only have the one knife,” Dean says, then squints back over at the desk. He strides across the room and starts pulling open drawers.

“I know. I want my angel blade back,” Cas grumbles. “What are you looking for?”

“Bingo,” Dean says, and produces an empty water bottle. “They took my flask, but we passed a water cooler out there. We’ll just make more.” He comes back over to the door.

Cas holds his hand out for the knife. “I’ll cover you, then we start hitting them. They’ll probably be in groups of three or four.”

Dean passes it over. “If this is _Die Hard_ , you gonna take off your shirt?”

“I would, but I don’t think you could handle the distraction.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Cas opens the door and they sneak out, heading to the water cooler. They make the holy water quickly, then start creeping slowly back through the office. The floor is deserted, and with no other options, they decide to brave the staircase to start climbing down. Dean pushes the door open as quietly as he can and pokes his head out onto the landing. Above them he can hear the voices of several demons, no more than two floors up. He backs up carefully and nods to Cas, they take up positions on either side of the door, then Dean grabs the handle and slams the door loudly.

Footsteps come thudding down the stairs, then the door bursts open and three demons run out into the room. Dean douses the first in line with holy water and he staggers back, screaming. Cas comes at another one with the knife, jabbing her hard in the side. He withdraws the knife sharply and tosses it to Dean, who catches it deftly and brings it down into the chest of another.

The last demon rams into Cas, forcing him roughly against the wall, but Dean yanks its head back and stabs the knife through the back of its throat.

Dean steps out of the way as it falls, then looks back up at Cas. “Alright. Three down, seventy more to go.”

 

 

 

 

They move swiftly, taking out small groups with guerilla tactics and remaking the holy water every time they come across a cooler. Most of the demons have been positioned on the stairs, standing guard on landings every four or five floors. Unfortunately, the ding-dong-ditch routine stops working after another few attack runs and finally they’re forced to fight on the stairs. That encounter turns bad very quickly as a second group comes at them from the level above, and both Dean and Cas take more than a few hits before they manage to fight past them all and out onto another floor.

Other teams are patrolling the offices, and Dean and Cas only just duck out of sight into a conference room before a group rounds the corner.

“This is taking too long,” Dean whispers, panting and clutching at his bruised ribs. He pulls a pilfered marker from his pocket and climbs up to stand on the long table in the centre of the room. “How far down do you think we are?”

“Maybe the fortieth floor? I was trying to keep track, but I lost count,” Cas says.

“I just wish we knew how many mooks were left. We can’t keep doing this forever.”

Cas absently rubs at a smear of blood on his forehead. “We need to get to Miranda. If she’s the one who put the lockdown spell on the building, it might die with her.”

“Yeah well, chances are she’s surrounded herself with a whole pile of lackeys.”

“Probably.”

Dean climbs back down, and together they shove the table over to the side of the room. “Well then, guess we’d better deal with them. You good to go again?”

“As always,” Cas says, and Dean grins at him then cautiously opens the conference room door.

They get no more than ten feet down the hall when four demons appear at the corner in front of them.

“Crap,” Dean says, starting to back up. He turns to run down the other end of the hall when another five start coming in from the opposite direction.

They form up back to back; Cas tightens his grip on the knife, and Dean starts flinging holy water from the bottle and inching towards the crowd of five. They just need to make it back into the conference room. Behind him he hears the other demons charge at Cas, and he throws a look over his shoulder to see him strike out with the knife, slashing and stabbing with precise, controlled movements.

“Cas, back inside, _now_ ,” Dean yells. He fights through his attackers just enough to hurl himself back inside the room, then starts backing up, water bottle raised. “ _Cas_!”

“Oops, sorry Winchester,” says one demon. “Looks like angel-face out there is gonna leave you stuck.” He pulls a long, wicked-looking knife from inside his jacket.

Dean’s back hits the far wall. “You think so?”

The demons frown, then Dean raises his eyes to the devil’s trap drawn in sharpie on the ceiling.

Their faces twist into vicious snarls, but Dean just grins at them and runs back outside. “Cas, let’s go!” he calls, then stops dead.

Two demons are on the ground part way down the hall, and there’s a trail of blood leading back the way they came. There’s no sign of Cas.

The bottom drops out of Dean’s stomach, and he starts tearing down the hall, following the trail of blood through the offices. Heart pounding, he turns a corner and sees another body on the floor, and fear is suddenly coursing through him strong enough to make him stumble. He almost cries in relief when he gets close enough to determine it’s just another demon.

There’s movement and voices coming from ahead of him then; another patrol of demons. Dean ducks down a smaller hall and flattens his back to the wall while they pass, trying to regain some control.

Cas had the knife. Cas is _good_ with the knife. Cas is old and strong and badass and he’s not going to get taken out by demon extra #4. The blood trail had ended with that last demon on the ground; Cas probably isn’t even hurt. He just had to run on ahead to avoid another patrol; he’ll double back as soon as he gets a chance.

Gritting his teeth, Dean slips out of the side hall and runs back to the conference room. “Miranda,” Dean says, closing the door behind him. “Where is she?”

The closest demon in the circle stares at him haughtily. “You think we’re telling you?”

Dean flicks holy water in its face, and the demon howls. “It’d be a good idea.”

“Nice try,” it says, spitting water from its mouth. “We know you don’t have the knife, and there’s only so much holy water left. You can’t do anything to us.”

Dean purses his lips. “Alright, fine,” he says. Then the room is rent with screams as he starts firing off an exorcism.

“ _Upstairs_!” one of them eventually shrieks, and Dean pauses. “She’s back up in her office, please, please. . .”

“Thanks,” Dean nods. “ _Ergo draco maledicte_. . .” The screams continue, until finally Dean finishes and black smoke blasts from their mouths and scorches the carpet.

The meatsuits drop, but Dean doesn’t have time for them right now. The yelling and racket will have drawn attention, and he can’t afford to stay on this floor. He runs back out of the room, headed for the nearest set of stairs.

“Okay, Dean,” he murmurs to himself as he jogs. “Building full of demons and you’re armed with a water bottle. Awesome.”

When he steps out onto the landing there are voices coming from below him, but tilting an ear up he can’t hear anything above. Chances are Miranda’s not expecting them to start climbing back up. Still, Dean hesitates; the farther from this floor he goes, the harder it will be for Cas to find him again. But there are more voices and footsteps approaching from the other side of the door, and he knows he has to keep moving.

“Damnit, Cas. You better stay alive.”

 

 

 

 

It turns out the conference room was actually on Floor 38, which means Dean has over twenty storeys to climb. He works his way up methodically, doing a sweep of each level for Cas and hiding from the demon patrols instead of taking them on. His heart sinks lower with each empty floor.

He stops, panting and exhausted, on the landing one floor below Miranda’s office – adrenaline can only get you so far when you’re pushing forty. He gives himself as long as he dares to catch his breath, then cracks the door open on Floor 60.

It’s dead quiet, and the area in front of the stairs is deserted. He slips out and starts another search. If Cas isn’t on this floor or the one above, it means he tried to go down, and now there’ll be at least twenty-five or thirty more flights of stairs between them. He’s clinging desperately to the thought that if Cas were killed or captured, Miranda would have gotten back on the PA to gloat about it.

He’s just come out into a cafeteria or break room of some kind when he hears pounding footsteps and shouting coming from a hall on the far side of the room.

There’s no time to hide so he braces himself to fight, but then Cas rounds the corner running full-tilt, a little bloodier than before and sweating buckets.

Dean almost faints with relief. “ _Sonofa_ – where the hell have you been?” he yells.

“Running!” Cas bellows, and then half a dozen demons follow him around the corner.

Dean runs towards them, flinging out with his water bottle. It slows the demons down somewhat, but they keep advancing.

“Here, I’ve got an idea,” Cas says, and he tosses Dean the knife and takes off toward the back of the cafeteria.

“Better make it quick,” Dean hollers, moving the knife up in front of him and flicking more holy water with the other hand. They come at him, and he slashes and stabs as best he can.

“Dean, come on!” Cas yells, and Dean breaks away from the fight long enough to turn around and see him at the kitchen door, a box of table salt in his hand.

Dean makes a break for it, charging across the room and jumping over the thick line Cas has drawn on the floor. He slumps back against the industrial refrigerator, winded, as the demons following him slam into the invisible barrier.

“Cas, you’re a genius,” Dean gasps out, as the demons howl in frustration.

“Thank you,” Cas pants, leaning against a countertop.

There’s a shuffling sound to Dean’s left, and he glances over in time to see black eyes and the flash of silver.

He steps back, but not far enough, and then pain spikes through his shoulder, white-hot and piercing.

Dean cries out; Miranda is inches from him, a nasty leer on her face and her hand still on the blade. A wave of dizziness hits him next, and dimly he feels the demon knife pulled from his loosened grip. He tries to keep his eyes open, but the pain in his shoulder is arcing out, down his arm and up the side of his neck.

The next thing he knows there’s a hand on his collar, hauling him up from where he’s sagged back against the fridge again. “Dean, _Dean_ , come on,” Cas says, slinging Dean’s good arm across his shoulders. He guides Dean forward, stepping around Miranda’s body on the floor and pulling him through a door leading off the kitchen Dean hadn’t noticed before.

They keep moving, blood dripping to the carpet with every step, and Dean fights to clear his head. The pain is hot and bright, but the wound doesn’t feel life-threatening.

After an agonizingly long walk down several hallways, Cas finally pushes open an office door and carefully lowers him down to lean against the desk. Dean grunts and pushes out pained breaths as Cas quickly moves back to the door and draws another salt line. Then he rushes back to Dean’s side.

“Hey, hey, stay still,” he says, eyes wide.

“Jeez, fuck,” Dean gasps. He takes another few breaths. “I don’t think it’s too bad. I can still wiggle my fingers.”

Cas nods, his eyes dropping to the wound. “Okay, good. Just – just try not to move.”

“You know, you’re cute when you worry.” Cas ignores him, still focused on his shoulder. Dean follows his gaze, and it’s only then he notices the blade is still stuck there. “Hey, I got your angel blade back for you.”

“Yes, you did. Thank you,” Cas says. He dips his head to examine the wound, then grimaces. “I’m going to have to pull it out.”

“Mmm, yeah I figured you were gonna say that,” Dean says, straightening his back against the desk.

“This is going to hurt.”

“Oh, really?” Dean snarks. He exhales long and hard. “Okay, let ‘er rip.”

Cas places one hand on the top of Dean’s shoulder, then carefully grasps the handle of his blade with the other. He meets Dean’s eyes, then yanks back, hard.

Dean shouts again, then blows out a few steadying breaths. The pain is still excruciating, but it’s transformed into a throb and the wound is now bleeding sluggishly

Cas drops the blade to the ground and then starts to unbutton his flannel overshirt. “Well, you got your wish: I’m taking my shirt off.”

“Excellent,” Dean grunts, then squints up at him. “I think that’s actually _my_ shirt.”

Cas pulls it all the way off and glances at it briefly. “Oh, well, you can have it back then,” he says, and presses it hard against the wound.

Dean sucks in a breath at the renewed stab of pain, then chuckles.

“What?” Cas asks, starting to wrap the shirt around his shoulder.

Dean shakes his head and looks up at him fondly. “I’m in love with you. Did you know that?”

Cas looks at him with wide, surprised eyes, then a smile splits his face. He looks so happy Dean regrets not saying the words a long time ago.

Dean smiles back at him, feeling oddly free. “Kiss me.”

Cas doesn’t hesitate, just leans in and presses their lips together eagerly. He deepens the kiss a moment later and Dean automatically tries to move his hands up to hold him, but then pain spikes out from his shoulder and he cries out.

Cas pulls away reluctantly. “Sorry,” he pants. “You know, it’s hardly fair you finally say that to me at a time when it’s not convenient for us to have sex.”

Dean chuckles again. “Cas, I promise you, the second we get out of here we can go straight back to the motel and you can have your way with me.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” he says. He ducks back in for one quick, softer kiss, then resumes tying the shirt over his wound.

After a moment he tightens it off, and Dean flinches.

Cas winces sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Dean. I should’ve noticed the other entrance to the kitchen.”

Dean dismisses him with a wave of his good arm. “Cas, you managed to stay alive for hours with a dozen demons on your ass. You’re forgiven.”

“So did you,” Cas says, shifting down to sit beside Dean against the desk. “And you were unarmed.”

“Oh, I was armed. I had a water bottle. Bastards never knew what hit ‘em.”

Cas laughs and shakes his head.

“And anyway, at least you got Miranda,” Dean says. “Lockdown on the building should be lifted.”

Cas nods. “We just have to make it to the ground floor.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Dean says, and then as if on cue from out in the hall comes the sound of footsteps and raised voices. “Oh, come on.”

The noise in the hall draws closer, and then there are fists and shoulders banging against the door. It shifts and the handle rattles, but it doesn’t open.

Dean runs his eyes over the salt line at the door. “Safe for now,” he says.

“But I think we missed our window,” Cas says. “I’m surprised it took them this long to find us, actually. You were bleeding a lot.”

Dean thumps his head back against the desk, pain and exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. “So what now?”

Cas sighs, looking as tired as Dean feels. “Open the door, take out as many as we can. There can’t be that many of them left now.”

“Yeah, where’ve I heard that before?”

“Fair point,” he says. “But what else are we going to do?”

Dean finds his eyes, then smiles softly. “Yeah.”

Summoning every remaining drop of his strength, Dean prepares to stand. Then from out in the hallway they hear the PA crackle on again.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ –”

Cas stares towards the door as the demons outside start to shriek. “Is that –”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean says. “Jody.”

Dean and Cas are both frozen, listening intently as Jody’s tinny voice keeps reciting and the demons outside keep screaming.

It seems to go on forever, the tortured cries getting louder, but she finally finishes the spell, there’s the inevitable blast of sound and smoke from outside, then everything goes quiet.

Dean sags back against the desk in relief and shock. Then he starts laughing.

Cas turns to look at him, mouth hanging open, but Dean just pulls him in close and keeps laughing. He’s probably delirious.

It’s a few minutes later when he hears Jody frantically shouting their names from down the hall.

“In here,” Cas calls, and after a moment the door opens.

Jody’s got an angel blade in one hand and a broad grin on her face. “Somebody call in the cavalry?”

Cas grins. “You have excellent timing, Sheriff.”

She steps up to the desk and crouches down, sweeping concerned eyes over both of them. “How you boys doin’?”

“Jesus Christ, Jody,” Dean says. “Where’d you come from? I thought you were at some conference.”

She nods, leaning in to critically examine his shoulder. “Yep, in D.C. Which means I was the closest when Sam called.”

“So he’s okay? What about my Mom, Eileen?” Dean asks, panic gripping him again.

“Whoa, slow down kiddo,” she says. “Yeah, they’re fine. Eileen and Donna made it out of their little surprise party first and sounded the alarm, then headed straight to Medford. Sam’s probably halfway here by now, and he sent Max Banes to New Orleans and a couple guys named Jesse and Cesar to Tucson.”

Dean smiles. “Atta boy, Sammy.”

Cas exhales and slumps against him. “So everyone’s okay?”

Jody grimaces. “For the most part. Rina’s got a badly broken leg and Ian took a knife to the stomach before backup could get there. Your mom’s with him at a hospital in Tucson, but they think he’ll pull through.”

“Good,” Cas says, and nudges Dean gently. “That’s good.”

Dean closes his eyes and exhales. Bone-deep exhaustion hits him all at once, and were it not for the throbbing ache in his shoulder he could curl up right there and sleep.

“Alright, you gotta stay awake one more minute, Dean,” Jody says, and Dean opens his eyes as she pulls her phone from her pocket. She hits a few buttons then hands it to Cas.

“Jody? Hey, did you find them, are they okay?”

Dean grins. “Hey Sammy.”

“Dean? God, Dean, are you guys alright?”

Outside the door, the people the demons had been wearing are starting to come to, shifting and groaning in pain, so Jody backs away to help them.

“Yeah, Sam, we’re okay. I mean, there’s an angel blade-shaped hole in my shoulder, and I’d like to crawl into bed and not get out again for about a month, but all things considered.”

“Good,” Sam says, relief heavy in his voice. “What about Cas?”

“I’m fine, Sam,” Cas says. “Nice backup plan.”

“Oh, they didn’t really need me,” Jody says, stepping back into the room. Dean and Cas both stare at her incredulously. “Seriously, you guys had taken out almost all of them by the time I got here. I didn’t run into a single demon until I got up to the PA in Miranda Washington’s office.”

Dean gapes at her, then at Cas. Then he starts laughing again.

 

 

 

 

They call Mary too, then finally heave themselves up off the office floor. It takes some creative lying but Jody manages to talk them past all the police and firetrucks that have been camped outside the tower since Cas pulled the fire alarm more than eight hours earlier.

Cas and Jody both insist on going to the hospital, so Dean ends up with a new prescription for painkillers, sixteen stitches, and a sling for his arm before they finally make it back to their motel that night. Jody helps carry their bags into the room, and doesn’t bat an eye when she sees the single bed.

“Night boys,” she says, patting Dean gently on his good arm. “I’ll be next door if you need me.”

“Thanks, Jody,” Dean says, and she smiles and leaves the room.

Cas starts leading him towards the bathroom. “Come on.”

They shower together, gently scrubbing the dried blood from their cut and bruised skin. Cas helps him with his hair and his back, careful of the sling and the bandages, then they both dry off, slip into clean boxers, and crawl into bed.

Dean relaxes against the pillows, flat on his back. “I know I promised you could have your way with me, but –”

“Maybe in the morning,” Cas says, curling into Dean’s side. “I don’t think I can move right now.”

Dean smiles. “In the morning. I’ll hold you to that.”

“Alright,” Cas says, then leans up and kisses him, slow and easy.

“I love you,” Dean whispers against his lips.

He can feel Cas smile. “I love you. Now go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought Walt got off too easy in 12x22, so I had Cas punch him in the face. It was very satisfying.
> 
> One chapter left! Preemptive and most sincere thanks to everyone who's been following along and commenting. You make my heart happy. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, friends.  
> I'm always a slut for kudos.  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG


	13. Track 13: Thank You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stay in New York another few days. Jody heads back to Sioux Falls, and Sam turns around and starts back to Lebanon only on the condition they stop by the bunker as soon as they’ve had a few days to recover. Castiel isn’t in any big hurry though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final chapter title is very appropriate, for Dean and Cas and for me as well.
> 
> A great big thank you to [Bexy](http://hufflepuffdean.tumblr.com/): part-time beta and full-time awesome human. [Read her stuff.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inplayruns/pseuds/inplayruns) Love her stuff. Love her.
> 
> More gigantic thanks to all of you who read and leave kudos and comment. Honestly, every one of you make my struggles and frustrations worth it. Thank you. Thank you thank you.

Little drops of rain whisper of the pain, tears of loves lost in the days gone by.  
My love is strong, with you there is no wrong, together we shall go until we die. My, my, my.

  
An inspiration is what you are to me, inspiration, look... see.  
  
And so today, my world it smiles, your hand in mine, we walk the miles,  
Thanks to you it will be done, for you to me are the only one.

 

 

 

They stay in New York another few days. Jody heads back to Sioux Falls, and Sam turns around and starts back to Lebanon only on the condition they stop by the bunker as soon as they’ve had a few days to recover. Castiel isn’t in any big hurry though.

Dean contends with the sling for only a day and a half before he gets too irritated and throws it in the motel wastebasket. He won’t put it back on, so Castiel does his best to ensure that Dean stays in bed and immobilized – which, he thinks, is no great hardship.

Castiel crawls out of the bed himself late afternoon on the third day, promising to return with the best New York pizza he can find. As he slips on his jeans he hears Dean whistle at him.

“You know, there’s times when I miss the trenchcoat,” he says, and Castiel watches Dean’s eyes sweep appreciatively over his bare chest and down to his ass. “But mostly not.”

Castiel shakes his head and pulls on a shirt. “Stay in bed, rest your shoulder.”

Dean shuffles himself up higher on his pillows and throws one arm up behind his head. “Guess I’ve found the secret to getting you to stay still for more than a day. I just need to get myself stabbed or mauled by a Hellhound.”

Castiel comes back up to the bed and leans over him. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” he murmurs, then kisses him deeply.

Dean seizes his opportunity and reaches his good arm up to pull Castiel down to sit on the bed. Powerless, as he always is, Castiel stays, and a moment later Dean’s hand starts to run along his jaw.

Dean breaks away eventually, his eyes lingering on Castiel’s lips, before he frowns and runs his thumb through the scruff on his chin. “Your beard.”

Castiel brings his own hand up to his cheek. “I was thinking of growing it in a little more. Do you not like it?”

“No, it’s not that,” he says, still frowning. “It’s just. . . there’s _grey_ in it.”

Castiel smiles and runs his fingers through the hair at Dean’s temples. “You too, a little bit. Just here.”

For a moment Dean futilely attempts to examine the hair out of the corner of his eye before Castiel hooks a finger under his chin and directs his gaze back up. “Just a little, I promise.”

Dean looks at him, bemused. “We’re getting old.”

“Some of us more than others.”

Dean smiles then, wide and bright. “Who’d have thunk?”

 

 

 

 

While everyone managed to get out of the five points traps relatively unscathed, enough demons escaped that there’s still work to do eliminating them all. Sam sends them word of omens in southern Indiana, so after five days of rest they agree to get back on the road.

Dean insists on ‘being tourists’ just once before they leave the city, however, so that morning they find themselves on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. It’s a clear day, and the breeze outside is cool but not enough to be uncomfortable. Castiel leans on the edge of the stone railing, taking in the view visible through the wrought-iron enclosure.

“Do you ever miss it?”

Castiel looks left to find Dean studying him, ignoring the city below.

Dean shrugs. “Not Heaven, but. . . being an angel? You know, multidimensional wavelength the size of that thing,” he throws his thumb over his shoulder, and Castiel grins briefly.

“Sometimes,” he says, his eyes drifting outwards again. “I miss flying. I miss being able to heal myself,” he looks back at Dean pointedly, “and heal _you_.”

Dean nods, a half-smile on his face. “At least you get to play doctor now,” he waggles his eyebrows.

Castiel looks at him sideways. “I miss appearing right behind you and making you jump.”

Dean points a finger, accusatory. “I _knew_ you always enjoyed that.”

Castiel grins at him, and Dean shakes his head. Then he steps forward, in plain view of several dozen tourists, and kisses him firmly on the lips.

Castiel pulls back after a moment, surprised, and glances around at the crowd. No one is paying them the slightest attention, but he returns his gaze to Dean with his eyebrows raised.

Dean’s a little pink in the face, but he shrugs. “Whatever.”

Castiel smiles again, then reaches over to fiddle with the lapel of Dean’s jacket. “No matter what I may miss,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t trade this. Ever.”

He leans in to kiss the smile from Dean’s lips.

 

 

 

 

They handle the demons in Indiana. Castiel does most of the heavy lifting, despite Dean’s protests, and by the time they’re speeding away from the abandoned warehouse they’re both panting hard but neither of them have more than one or two additional bruises.

Castiel is driving, one hand on the wheel and the other stretched out across the top of the bench. They’re a few miles outside of town when he absently reaches up to pull his collar away from the sweat still beading at his neck.

“Pull over,” Dean says.

Concerned, Castiel turns to look at him, then his throat turns dry. Dean’s breathing hard again, but his eyes are dark and hungry.

Swallowing, and feeling his own arousal stir, Castiel glances through the windows. It’s late, and they haven’t seen another car on the road since they pulled away from the warehouse. “Now?” he asks, slightly amused.

The next moment Dean is sliding across the seat and latching his mouth onto the side of Castiel’s neck. “Pull over,” he repeats, then Castiel feels a hand grip high on the inside of his thigh. “ _Now._ ”

Castiel hastens to obey, pulling the car over by a small copse of trees as safely as he can with Dean working his tongue insistently over the cords of his throat. Once they’ve stopped and Castiel’s pulled the keys from the ignition, Dean moves his hand from Castiel’s thigh to grind the heel directly onto his cock.

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath. “What did I do?” he asks, rolling his neck to give Dean better access.

Dean practically growls against his throat. “Sittin’ there, all sweaty, driving.”

Castiel chuckles, then Dean pulls his hand away only to straighten up in the seat then swing his leg over both of Castiel’s to straddle him. He dips his head to kiss him, cupping Castiel’s face and pressing his tongue insistently into his mouth. Castiel reaches up to push the jacket off Dean’s shoulders, mindful of the injured side, and Dean shakes it all the way off.

“You know,” he says, pulling his mouth away and starting to yank at Castiel’s jacket too. “The main reason I never wanted to let you drive her was ‘cause I didn’t think I could handle seeing you at the wheel.”

“You have a very strange relationship with your car, Dean,” Castiel says, then all commentary flies out of his head as Dean grinds his hips down.

A groan escapes him, and Dean leans back in to swallow it as his hands drop to Castiel’s fly.

“Don’t you want to get in the back?” Castiel asks.

Dean shakes his head. “Here.”

“The wheel’s kind of in the way,” Castiel quirks his lips, still amused by Dean’s fervour.

“Alright, fine. Just slide over then.”

Castiel shifts himself along the bench, pulling his jeans and underwear down enough to expose his cock. Dean half-stands, his head curled awkwardly against the roof, and pulls his own jeans and boxers all the way off. Then he straddles Castiel again and leans forward, but instead of kissing him he reaches over the backrest to snag his duffel from the back seat.

“Really?”

“Hey, we haven’t done this part in here yet,” Dean says, pulling out the bottle of lube and tossing the bag back over the seat. “And that is a damn travesty.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Castiel says, running his hands along Dean’s thighs.

“Damn straight,” Dean says. He grabs Castiel’s hand and squirts a generous supply of lube onto his fingers. “Now hurry up.”

Castiel shakes his head and uses his free hand to pull Dean down for a heated kiss, then brings his fingers around to start working him open. He usually likes to take his time with this; slowly teasing, watching Dean tremble and gasp and fly apart at the seams from only these first touches. But Dean is kissing him fervently, his hand has started to stroke Castiel’s cock, and he knows they both aren’t in the mood to wait.

Castiel is quick but as thorough as he can be, then Dean leans his mouth back and pulls Castiel’s hand away. Castiel bites his lip in anticipation as Dean reaches for the lube and pours some into his own hand, then runs it over Castiel’s cock. Without pausing, Dean rises higher on his knees to position himself, grips Castiel firmly, then sinks down slowly on a long sigh.

Castiel resists driving up into him; chasing the overwhelming, tight heat of Dean’s body. Instead he keeps his hips still, focusing on the look on Dean’s face as he gradually lowers himself down.

After a long, drawn-out moment he bottoms out, shifting slightly in Castiel’s lap and breathing heavily, his eyes fluttering shut. Castiel tries to steady his own heartrate by leaning in to rest their foreheads together, and his hands come up to hold Dean’s hips.

Dean swallows and lets out a breath, then starts to move his hips in a slow roll. Another groan leaves Castiel and his hands grip tighter. He starts to guide Dean’s movements but keeps his own hips still.

After a long while Dean reaches both hands up to Castiel’s neck, then leans forward and presses their panting mouths together. Dean makes a small, soft sound at the change of angle and Castiel finds he can hold off no longer. He slides further down in the seat, then plants his feet firm on the car’s floor and thrusts upwards. Dean gasps but Castiel doesn’t relent, drawing back down and thrusting up again, harder. Dean pulls away from his mouth to draw in a few sharp breaths and gasp out his name, and Castiel uses the hold on Dean’s hips to keep him stationary.

Castiel keeps up a steady pace for a while, the only sounds their breathless panting and the creak of the leather seats. Then Dean brings a hand down to his shoulder and starts to push him sideways.

“Down, go down,” he says, and Castiel slows the driving of his hips enough to maneuver himself down sideways in the seat, laying lengthwise along the bench. Dean shifts and adjusts, now sitting astride Castiel and framing his hips with his knees. After a moment he nods, and Castiel resumes pushing up into him, now afforded much greater freedom of movement.

Dean moans and curses; he tries to steady himself by gripping the back rest, but a moment later abandons it to brace a hand on the roof instead. His eyes widen with realization then, and he starts to use the leverage in his hand to push himself back down on Castiel’s cock, slamming onto him even harder.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas,” he gasps, and his free hand comes up to grip his cock. He strokes himself rapidly, his head falling backward, and just watching him has Castiel hurtling toward the edge with very little warning.

It’s less than a minute later that Dean is crying out for a final time, come streaking out from his fist and landing on Castiel’s stomach and his partially rucked-up t-shirt. Castiel isn’t far behind, chasing his own orgasm by pulling Dean down onto his cock again and again until finally he seizes and gasps, then drops his head back onto the seat.

There’s a long moment where they pant together, then Dean drops his hand from the ceiling and rises up on his knees. He inhales slightly when Castiel’s cock slips out of him, then he falls forward to sprawl across Castiel’s front.

“Well, that was awesome,” he says, settling his cheek against Castiel’s chest.

Castiel runs a hand through Dean’s hair. “Yes, it was. Now, get up and find me a new shirt, please. And you should probably put your pants back on.”

Dean practically giggles. “Yeah, of all the things we could be arrested for, it’d be kinda embarrassing for ‘indecent exposure’ to be what finally gets us.”

“Want me to keep driving?”

“Mmm, yeah, we promised Sam we’d get back to the bunker by tomorrow morning.” He starts to heave himself up.

Castiel smiles as he shifts upright in the seat. “Are you going to be able to contain yourself?”

“Shut up.”

 

 

 

 

Mary finds out about them by accident two days later. Ian’s still in recovery at the hospital in Tucson, but she decides to come up to the bunker to see them on their stop through.

Dean’s leaning against the kitchen table, idly scratching behind Sadie’s ears. Castiel hands him a cup of coffee, and Dean leans forward unthinkingly to kiss him in thanks.

“Oh.”

They both freeze, and Dean goes bright red when he looks to the kitchen door to see Mary standing there, her own empty coffee cup in her hand and her eyebrows in her hair.

“Sorry,” she says, eyes going back and forth between them. “I was just. . .” she gestures with her coffee cup, and Dean straightens up from the table.

“Uh, no, it’s fine,” he stammers. “We were, uh. . .”

He doesn’t seem to be able to finish, his face still flushed. Castiel takes a step backwards, unsure whether or not to stay, but Dean turns to him with panicked eyes.

“So, before, when you said ‘complicated,’” Mary says, and they both turn back to her, “you meant _complicated_.”

Dean stares at her, breathing slightly harder than normal. Then he turns to Castiel, and after a moment his expression clears somewhat. “Uh, well, actually,” he starts, then swallows and looks back at his mother. “It’s actually not that complicated at all, Mom.”

A small smile forms on Castiel’s face, and Mary looks surprised for a moment. But Dean keeps looking at her steadily, and then eventually she smiles too.

“Well, okay,” she says, stepping down into the room.

“Okay?” Dean asks.

She nods. “Yeah, Dean, of course it is. As long as you’re happy.”

Dean sags back against the table. Mary smiles at them both, then reaches over to pour herself a cup of coffee.

“Okay, well, you kids go back to doing whatever it is you were doing,” she says, and Dean blushes again. “I’m in the middle of helping your brother sort through the latest round of demon omens.” She gives them another smile then turns to walk back out the far door.

Castiel tries to meet Dean’s eyes, but Dean is focused on Mary’s retreating back.

She’s almost at the door when he stands. “Mom.”

She turns around, and he walks over to her and takes the coffee cup gently from her hands. Carefully, he sets it on the kitchen island, then steps close and wraps his arms around her tightly. After a moment he tilts his head and whispers something in her ear that Castiel doesn’t catch, then he releases her and reaches over to hand her cup back. Eyes a little watery, she smiles at him again, and at Castiel over Dean’s shoulder, then she leaves the room.

Dean stands there a moment before turning around and walking back to Castiel.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks quietly.

Dean leans his forehead down to rest against Castiel’s, closes his eyes, and breathes. “Think so.”

Castiel smiles. “What did you say to her?”

“She asked if I was happy,” Dean says, his eyes still shut. “I told her I was.”

 

 

 

 

They take the next job, and the next, zig-zagging over the country, but Castiel relents with a day or two off every few weeks. Dean keeps suggesting they spend a week at the beach when it starts to get a bit warmer, and the thought of Dean in a bathing suit has Castiel seriously considering the idea. For now though, it’s good just to work.

They’re somewhere west of Oklahoma City when Dean shifts in his seat and points a hand at the glove compartment.

“Can you grab the aspirin for me?”

Castiel reaches forward and digs around for the bottle. He pours two pills out and hands them over. “Your shoulder again?”

“Nah, I think it was actually digging the grave last night. Think I pulled something.” Dean takes the pills and knocks them back. “Man, I remember when I could get thrown into a wall every other day and just walk it off.”

Castiel returns the bottle to the glove compartment. They’re silent for another moment, then he turns his head sideways. “Would you ever want to do anything else?”

Dean looks at him, brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

Castiel shrugs. “Other than hunting.”

Dean looks back at the road and tilts the corner of his mouth up. “Like what? It’s a little late for a career change, don’t you think?”

“True,” Castiel says. “But between all the broken ribs and stab wounds, one day it’s going to be harder to do this job than we’d like it to be.”

“Yeah maybe, one day,” Dean says. “I dunno, I’m not used to thinking about this stuff. Never thought I’d live long enough to worry about retirement. Never had something like _this_ to worry about keeping,” he adds, looking over again to find Castiel’s eyes.

“It’s not something I ever had reason to think about either,” Castiel says, and Dean huffs a laugh.

“Well then I say we jump off that bridge when we come to it,” Dean says. “I got a lot of fight left in me, Cas.”

Castiel smiles. “Me too.”

Dean smiles back, then reaches down to the shoe box on the floor and slides an old, slightly battered cassette into the deck.

_If the sun refused to shine, I would still be lovin’ you. Mountains crumble to the sea; there would still be you and me._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you’ve enjoyed the open road. The last couple days I’ve been completely channeling Chuck: 
> 
> “Endings are hard. Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning, but endings are impossible.”
> 
> Thanks for reading, friends. Really.  
> I'm always a slut for kudos.  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/caroleec/playlist/4o6ZyDHzOo25m6NFRNhAjG  
> Come say hello on tumblr, pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com I'd love to be friends.


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